February 21, 2007

The Baywatch Principle

Yesterday was Paczki Day here in the mitten state; if you’ve never experienced it, it goes something like this: you celebrate by eating your deep fried ball(s) of sugar-coated lard and telling anyone who tries to tell you they’re disgusting to get bent, because it’s tradition. Then you lie on the couch for a few hours, clutching your stomach and praying for the merciful hand of death to stop the pain. The celebration carries over into the next morning, when you assuage the guilt of consuming the caloric equivalent of a bull moose by fasting for six weeks. This is how we Polish roll.*

In the the South, it’s Mardi Gras—and being French, it celebrates something more tasteful, less American, than gluttony. It celebrates boobs. More specifically, the public flashing of one’s doodles in exchange for trinkets, traditionally inspired by damaging amounts of either alcohol or low self-esteem.** Not to rag on my Polish ancestry, but there really is no contest between these holidays; I’ll take inappropriate sexual behavior over a doughnut any day. But—why not have both?

In keeping with the spirit of both holidays, I offer an homage to both irreverence and indulgence to bring you Beedoo’s Weekly Calendar of Primetime Televsion’s Steamiest Sex Objects. It’s not for the the fainthearted—my image searches were interrupted many times by disbelief, morals, and hand-fanning—but luckily the sugar in all those king’s cakes makes a perfect surfboard for a rampant effluvium of objectification. So grab a day-old paczki, some water and two Aleve, because were about to cure that hangover by glutting ourselves at the smorgasboard of Hot.

Monday:



Mike Delfino, Desperate Housewives
I don’t watch this show, so I apologize for my lack of knowledge about the character. From what I have garnered by walking through the room while others are watching, the point of this show is that James Denton can wear the hell out of a V-neck sweater; which is an innate, elusive skill (much like Colin Firth’s ability to wear scarves, or Hugh Jackman’s ability to wear nothing at all). I actually saw him on some talk show or other, and for a little (unnecessary) icing he’s also a really nice guy; he’s got a playful attitude that makes me want to set a up a photo shoot featuring t-shirts, relaxed jeans and puppies.

Tuesday:



Sayid, Lost
You can get in the Sawyer / Jack camps if you want—I get the Jacklust; he’s cute enough, in a good guy way—but Sawyer must be attractive in the same way Aragorn is, because I am not even remotely on board. I never subscribed to that whole “unwashed = sexy” thing; like, maybe if you scraped the blood and grime off there’d be something underneath worth having, but that’s gonna take more than ten minutes and a hose—we’re talking a 10 gallon-drum of mineral spirits, a team of stylists and possibly a shaman. I can’t be bothered to put forth that kind of effort for my car, so one man, one day? Enh. Then again, that’s sort of my feeling on the show as a whole. Also, I don’t really care for the two-day stubble look (but I do wonder how they consistently manage it on a deserted island).

Whatever your stance on the dirty-hot issue, there can be no argument that the hottest thing in this tropical milieu is Sayid Jarrah. Mysterious. Capable. Ruthless. And if that don’t sell ya like a Birkin bag, he’s also got a delicious accent and big brown cow eyes. Seriously: if you feel a need to shine your shoes with your jaw, do a Google image search on Naveen Andrews (Naveen? Hi. Never shave. Ever. Love you! Mean it!). Everyday, women worldwide load his Wikipedia page, pause, and announce “Well. I’m straight.” including lesbians. Including the blind.
Man, it’s all steamy in here now. We’ll have to take a cute break.

Wednesday:



Luke Danes, Gilmore Girls
Another man who can rock a cashmere jumper. I liked the character more before the writers turned him into a sulking dillweed, but they never deviated from his well-meaning ‘aw, shucks’ness, and he has remained a glowing little ember in my girl’s heart as a result. He’s that guy who doesn’t just remember your birthday but also your Mom’s birthday, and calls from the store to see if you need anything while he’s out, and knows that you like tomatoes, but not on pizza because they get all gooshy. In short, he’s either the brother you never had or the guy you’re gonna marry, because either way you’ll share beers and watch games together for the rest of your lives.

Thursday:



Dr. Luka Kovac, ER
Now this isn’t really fair, because… well, there are a few things you must understand about Goran Visnjic: The man is not actually human. He is an ethereal amalgamation of moods, colors and flavors, and he surrounds you like an opiate. As if you’re in a muslin tent, dense with humidity, sheer fabric clinging to your thighs, and you cannot help but drape yourself over a chaise-lounge, shamelessly displaying yourself to the most provoactive advantage because the man? Is. Sex. This otherwordly quality tips the balance to such a degree that nobody on the show—nay, in the world—can ever keep up. And yet his intensity is barrel-aged, hand-rolled, 77% cacao; you can’t have it everyday (even tempered with the amaretto sidecar known as John Stamos). But when you do…

I need to move on, or we’ll be here all day.

Friday:



Dr. Greg House, House
Here is some stubble I can get behind (and over, and under, and blah blah blah inappropriate) because it is not the beard holding up the actor, but the actor holding up the beard. If you don’t want to come with me, I can sail this ship alone—but those two Golden Globes and scary SAG award say I don’t have to. I admit some bias, because Hugh Laurie had me at Blackadder, but he’s a brilliant actor and he’s aging like single-malt scotch—and the combination of the two is smokin’ like GI Joe in an EZ-bake oven.

Weekend Special: Grey’s Anatomy



Dr. Derek "McDreamy" Shepard
Oh, Patrick Dempsey. There is no woe so deep, no plotline so weak, and no scene so Izzie-heavy that your wavy locks can’t instantly make right. He’s one of those celebrities where you feel sorry for his wife; being married to such constant visual perfection must be hell on her nerves, let alone her self-esteem. Attending every red-carpet event with a fixed smile, peripheral mirrors and brick in her purse… the publicity shots, Patrick chillin’ while she burns ‘Back Off’ into the back of the photographer’s head with her eyes. Brutal.

Dempsey isn’t alone, either; this is, hands down, the hottest show on television. Unlike the other shows in rotation, this one has the benefit of good wrting, fantastic acting, and well-rounded as well as appealing (I know!) female characters—and of course, every actor on it sports a doability factor of eleven. [Special pullout includes trading cards featuring McSteamy, McBigot, McAsshole and McIwishheweren’tgay.]

* I don’t eat paczki; I prefer to demonstrate my pedigree by enjoying prune soup and plucking curly chin hairs. Seeeexxxy.
**RIP, Anna Nicole. [That was mean. I’m sorry. Not sorry enough to delete it, but still sorry.]

Below: Great minds think alike.

Run, Yasmine. Run.

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