le bunny
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11:43:21 am on May 4, 2006 | # |
A few years ago I had a slight argument with a friend who for the sake of protecting her anonymity, I’ll simply call S.
S is an interesting character, she’s warm, she’s talented, and perhaps almost an equal in terms of useless information (if you know me, you’ll find I’d be an excellent candidate for lifeline or VH-1 employee). She certainly collects more memorabilia, and sticks to a cause like some people stick to vinyl seats on warm days. Never mind.
I’ve known S a good amount of years and her me, but for a long while, I just couldn’t shake off the notion that she simply didn’t have sense enough to recognize hotness.
HOTNESS.
That quality some people have that makes you sit back and go wow at God or whatever it was that put that person together, you know?
It’s not necessarily something that makes your biology go into overtime, no no, I mean yeah it can, but essentially it’s just that hotness.
I’ll give you a minute to mull that over in your head, get that picture going and then get back at reading this.
Have you got that idea?
Is it in there good now?
Well, I thought I had that.
A really good grasp on that concept, for years even, I mean we’re talking hard knocking steadfastness, you know… I was committed to my cause and would by all means stick to it. Tooth and nail if need be—certainly firmer than any synthetic material or ideal, but… I dunno…now I’m thinking S was right along.
In these new bouts with one’s own judgment, that feeling of unsettledness and perhaps even disillusionment—it’s enough to well completely change your life.
If I was wrong about something like this, could I be wrong about other things too?
S and I argued about who/what manner of Travolta was sexiest. It might have been an easier argument if it had really come down to “sexiest,” but it wasn’t.
The key word that really threw the whole thing up into girl fisted and nerd shouty warfare had to be another.
It was that kind of argument that starts off with two friends just wasting time between homework and commercials. You might go over what flavor of soda goes better with what, or discuss an album one’s purchased and so on…
“When did you think Travolta looked his hottest?” S just had to go and ask.
I was adamant about John Travolta being in key form as the borderline retard, but fantastically loveable sweat hog Vinnie Barbarino, where as S stood ground on the dirt kicking, bull riding Buford ‘Bud’ Uan Davis “Urban Cowboy.”
Sure, we agreed that Debra Winger was hideous (that poor woman), and not on one, but on numerous accounts ended up with the two of us breaking into a Bee-gee song with the very kind of gusto people get might save for special occasions.
This matter however almost got ugly.As if the equal amount of attractiveness was unleashing its dark side.
I remember breaking my head and a sweat going over all the fantastic qualities of a fresh-faced john Travolta.
Let’s break it down:
Right off—19
Nineteen years old, which I think should be put down as a fact, is the HOTTEST age to be in any human lifetime.
There isn’t that lame legal thing to discuss, and he’s not old enough to have any hang-ups or real baggage to grudge him down. It’s not two decades of anything yet, but it’s not too far off either.
It’s sweet and it’s acceptable. It’s fit and it’s fantastic. And just look at him. Look at ALL of him.
To really look at him, you’d know you were looking at a direct descendent of roman gods clad in wife beater shirts and borderline anorexia. Aside form Raphael portraits and perhaps Polynesian art/war history, lean and mean was the thing. I’m sorry, it was and it basically is (who’s hot right now? Yeah we love Pillsbury, but we also love these a$$*****).
At 6’ 2” and 160 lbs, was the magnificent work of Travolta art.
Chiseled features from head to toe, shining brighter than the Brooklyn idea of high fashion jewelry of 1974. His hair dark and soft, his dimple yet to be tarnished and cheated by the lights of “look who’s talking” or worse still “Battlefield Earth” (I’d say something about a certain ‘ology, but then that would be an entire other blog).
And lets not forget personality. Personality goes a long way (quote from Pulp fiction). Longer than his bell-bottoms, longer than his vacant glances from across a desk….
Barabarino was never gonna second guess your judgment. He was never gonna try and outdo you in chess or anything. At most he’d says, “up your nose w/a rubber hose” and he could say it in a way that just melted any kind of coldness in your tiny of tiniest hearts. For lack of brainpower, Barbarino had sexpower. That alone is king in what crowns HOT.
We love what cannot hurt us. We love what we can nurture and protect. We love the simple things in life. Why else would we let him into our hearts and “American Bandstand?”
It was that simpletoness, that straight off the street charm that poised him to dance floor greatness onto what is in my opinion one of the many great movies in a decade of already amazing movies—“Saturday Night Fever.”
What were S’s arguments?
“He’s a cowboy, dude. He wears tight pants a white hat, drinks beer, dances nice, and he’s dumb for a girl.”
How the f*** is this an argument?
If anything, S’s examples were the very same things that made Barbarino amazing!
This time however, he’s no longer in the 70s world of disco and paranoia, but the early 80s of honkytonks and yuppie paranoia.
*Sigh.
So I win, right?
Wrong.
To be continued… how sexy was travolta?
The testing continues…
