Shawn: This is damned to faint praise. Sure, our guy knows his strengths and wisely foregrounds his girded haunches and well-developed calves, but face-free nakedness always beg the question whether it’s a less-than-photogenic mug or an innate shame that calls for anonymity.
And just as it's possible to be technically hot but not especially exciting -- sort of like the interchangeable Van Patten or Van Dyke sons or softcore porn -- brand name-heavy vacuousness can neutralize everything in sight.
His domicile is marked by the very same middle-of-the-road, risk-free ambience that characterizes his handbook nudie shot, as if the entire place were mainlined from Pottery Barn. That’s got to be the company catalog resting on his subdued navy upholstery and I’m thinking it’s either the Sumatra Media Cabinet or the Tanner Nesting Tables that are driving him to such flank-bearing delirium, especially since he already has the faux-craftsman Raleigh Coffee Table and matching Mica Lamp.
It’s a given that there’s constant smooth jazz and/or world music piped in, plus the entire series of Murder, She Wrote (The Golden Girls are just too tarty and floral-inclined) waiting in his Netflix queue, all for the sake of maintaining the hypnotically tranquil jejuneness of it all. Only the conspicuous 8 x 10 of a beaming Eisenhower Era moppet reveals the subtextual seething rage and self-loathing that compel their sufferers to seek out this very oppressive prosaicness that ultimately crushes the already broken inner child within.
Maybe this is none other than Steve Guttenberg -- the embodiment of the built-but-bland guy you’d nail but feel empty inside not only after, but during -- squat thrusting for his upcoming run on Dancing With The Stars. Or could it be one of the earnestly zoned-out Romney Brothers biting down on that glaucous throw pillow as he simultaneously weeps and pants about what a dirty boy he is deep, deep down inside.
Yes, we know it's you Tab or Dart ... or Flash ...