Naked Ladies of the Week: Shannon Tweed and Andi Currie

Fabrizio del Wrongo writes:

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This week I present two classics from the old man’s porn collection.

As a kid I took Shannon Tweed as representing all that was lyrical and untrammeled in women. Sure she was sexy, but she was sexy in that sophisticated-but-wholesome way in which “Playboy” specialized. I remember being particularly taken with her large, puffy nipples and strawberry-blonde bush. (Women can be blonde down there? Wow!) The 1982 Playmate of the Year, and later an actress in a host of television shows and trashy movies, Tweed is now probably most famous for being married to Kiss tongue man Gene Simmons. Now whenever I look at her I can’t help but think of that big gorilla. Thanks, Gene.

(By the way, according to Wikipedia, Tweed was introduced to “Playboy” by a Canadian “wish-fulfillment TV series” called “Thrill of a Lifetime.” Can you imagine a TV show of today serving as a young woman’s entree into porn? I can’t. As we like to say around here: couldn’t do it today.)

I don’t believe Andi Currie was ever known for much besides posing for a few magazine layouts, but her 1976 work for “Club” is enough to place her among the immortals as far as I’m concerned. Photographed by the super-talented Fred Enke, the pictorial has the lazy-but-brimming quality of a late summer afternoon. And Andi is so sensual she’s nearly pungent. What is communicated by that expression with which she looks directly at the camera? Disdain, maybe? Defiance? She wants you to take her, but you’re gonna have to rise to her standards. If not, look out! Your fantasy Shannon Tweed might deign to have pity on you, but not your fantasy Andi Currie. You’ll be lucky to get out of there alive.

Nudity below. Have a great weekend.

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Couldn’t Do It Today

Fabrizio del Wrongo writes:

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Architecture and Color

Paleo Retiree writes:

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Cockatoo Meltdown

Paleo Retiree writes:

Cockatoos are divas.

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Quote Du Jour

Paleo Retiree writes:

Fred Reed’s current column is the best thing yet written about this election as well as a rollickingly fun read. IMHO, of course, but I trust that that’s always understood. Here’s a bit of it:

I frankly think [Hillary] admirable. As she coughs, staggers, convulses, lies, pilfers, sells favors and lapses into intermittent confusion, she still has the courage to tell America that she loathes half of it. That´s candor.

Give her credit for consistency. She is always mendacious, firmly in the pockets of Wall Street, Israel, the Neocon hawks, and the arms industry, never having accomplished anything on her own, always riding Bill’s coattails, having a disastrous record as SecState, always for sale. With her, we know what we will get. With Trump, it’s a roll of very weird dice.

Ah, the Donald. While he unmistakably displays various presidential qualities–he can walk up stairs by himself, and his eyes usually point in the same direction–there is indeed a certain aleatory quality to the man. God knows what he might do. He shoots from the hip, saying all sorts of loopy but interesting things. Interesting if you live somewhere else. He talks unflatteringly about the other sex near open mikes, instead of away from them like everybody else.

The Donald merely makes me nervous, while Hillary makes me want to take poison. It is the difference between an acid trip and death by sinus drainage. His truly great strength is that he is not Hillary. The election is really a contest between placeholders for conflicting interests, for different views of the world. Few would want either if there were another choice.

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Architecture and Color

Paleo Retiree writes:

color-ca_altadena_trip_2013_08_walking_tour_biltmore_hotel07

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Quote Du Jour

Blowhard, Esq. writes:

This popped up in my Facebook feed this morning and it sums up pretty well my feelings throughout this election season.

lovecraftonthedemos

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A Song for Sunday

Blowhard, Esq. writes:

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Notes on “The Shallows”

Fabrizio del Wrongo writes:

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I found the highly praised shark movie “The Shallows” to be a tolerable but rather joyless experience. Taken as a genre picture it’s weirdly flat — not exciting and funny like “Jaws,” or empathically harrowing like “Gravity,” or even perversely cruel like “The Birds.” In place of these qualities, which are among the qualities we tend to enjoy in thrillers, director Jaume Collet-Serra substitutes arduousness and a grim corporeality. Like a lot of contemporary genre movies “The Shallows” intends not to delight you, or even to scare you, but to put you through the wringer. Why are so many contemporary thriller and horror-movie directors so literal minded, so uninterested in evoking sensations beyond the physical traumas endured by their characters? My main thought while watching “The Shallows” was, “Boy, being attacked by a shark really sucks.”

As Nancy, the surfer who is held captive on a rock by an angry predator, Blake Lively has an impressive physicality — athleticism and vigor contained within an antiperspirant-model exterior. You want to like her. But Collet-Serra’s direction doesn’t get inside her perceptions or thought processes, a major failing in a survival picture. It’s rare that we understand the action from Nancy’s point of view. Instead we get repeated objective shots intended to emphasize the vastness and power of the ocean. (As nearly all of the action takes place in a small area, an emphasis on tantalizing nearness would have been more effective.) Not only does this decision thwart our identification with Nancy, it helps to defeat the spatial organization that is required for a movie of this sort to be effective. I never felt certain where the screenplay’s principal locales — the rock, the buoy, the shore, the whale carcass — were in relation to one another. And when Nancy eats a crab — alive, so that it wriggles on her lips — the action comes out of nowhere; her hunger isn’t anticipated by the writing or direction.

Perhaps the feeblest device used to animate Nancy is an injured seagull that’s stranded on her rock. Although it’s intended as a mute sounding board, a character for Lively to play against, it only caused me to miss the touchingly humanized volleyball from “Cast Away.” When the seagull solemnly floats away, unwisely echoing a key shot in the Zemeckis film, you may think, “That’s it?” The reference feels unearned. There’s a going-through-the-motions quality to this and other character bits, as though Collet-Serra and his team were biding their time, treading water as it were, between the big computer-assisted shark moments.

Because no reasonable motivation is provided for the shark’s malevolence (perhaps it supports Trump?), and Collet-Sera’s approach is so po-faced, the viewer is left wondering what the big fish represents. (Symbolism is the last refuge of the bored.) Is it the Patriarchy? The male gaze? Nancy’s grief at the loss of her mother? I finally decided that it wasn’t meant as a metaphor; that it was meant, rather, as one of those challenges that contemporary women yearn for and demand that we acknowledge, like a marathon, a divorce, or a doctoral program (it’s made clear that Nancy is a med student). When at the picture’s end Nancy’s gnomish father figuratively pats her on the head, assuring her that her mother would be proud of her (dad’s pride being irrelevant to Nancy’s self-image), the message of the movie becomes obvious. It can be summarized as “overcoming obstacles begets validation.” For many viewers, that sentiment is enough.

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A Song for Saturday

Blowhard, Esq. writes:

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