Filed under: in praise of athletic beauty, starfucking | Tags: Roberto Duran
Here’s part 3 of this week’s alarmingly long Starfucker Friday, in which your confused and bedraggled mom looks under your bed and finds spooge-stained copies of Sports Illustrated from the seventies. The seventies, your mom will note, were a weird time for Sports Illustrated (and, you know, American culture in general.) On the one hand, all the many sports leagues were consolidating, so all of a sudden the whole country cared about the same basketball and football and hockey teams. Plus it seemed people wanted to watch competitive sports on TV rather than actually participate in them, so the less visual sports (like hunting, and dog shows, and to some extent auto racing) gave way to lots and lots of basketball and hockey stars. The one exception to this was track, which was all over SI covers as people broke record after record and ran miles in less than four minutes and stuff. But the quality of the covers started sliding downhill in this decade, which is sort of disappointing, especially since athletes in the seventies all had hot sideburns and stuff.
Steve Prefontaine. Hotter than Jared Leto. Also, dead by 1975. But still–hot legs.
I don’t know why, but I think this guy is wicked hot. He’s totally average-looking, and also the photographer apparently thought it would be “edgy” and “gritty” to show Mr Plunkett “in action,” which means that his arms are blurry, and that’s basically the most notable thing about this photo. [nb: I picked these pictures out at 2 in the morning while having coughing fits. I don't know if I really picked the best ones or not.] But yeah, still. I’d do him.
37 Muhammad Ali covers and this is possibly the best. I think I prefer the one with him standing in front of Big Ben, but, you know, there was a lot more competition for awesome covers in the sixties. Not such a handsome fellow….
Nice thighs (and nice little shorts), nice sideburns, and nice three-way fantasies.
Well, don’t mind if I do….
There have been many SI hockey covers, but few of them do any justice to the fact that hockey players are, at least in concept, really sexy men that a) play a sport a puck, which is wicked hard and tends to break your teeth and stuff; b) beat the shit out of each other ALL THE TIME; and c) do it on skates. Which kind of makes me want one of those Co-ed Naked Hockey shirts that were all the rage in like ‘91 that probably said “Hockey Players do it on skates.” (Or like the Co-ed Naked Ultimate Frisbee ones that said something like “Ultimate Frisbee Players Do It On The Quad When You’re Trying To Walk To Chemistry.” Or like the Co-ed Naked Bungee Jumping ones that said “Bungee Jumpers Do It While Falling Off A Platform, Possibly At Some Kind Of Fair Or Carnival.” But I digress.) Here’s one of the better ones. Look at fuckable Mr Cute Bruin Man in the middle there.
Notice, though, that the outlined Sports Illustrated logo is a drastic and tacky step down from what came before it.
There was a pretty consistent percentage of sexy boxers on the cover of SI, including foxy Roberto Duran, who made the cover a bunch of times in the seventies and eighties. He’s getting pounded in this picture, but I’d like to see him doing some pounding in my bedroom, if you catch my drift. And if you don’t, really, I can’t help you, I’m sorry. There’s nobody I want to fuck for days on end like Jean-Claude Killy in the sixties, but I’d probably vote for Duran if I had to pick one athlete from the seventies to fuck. Y’know, if, I got in a time machine and went back to the seventies and had the urge to find an athlete to fuck. For some reason. Hypothetically.
Anyway. The non-hunky covers in the seventies were less exciting than the graphically awesome ones in the sixties (with the exception of the Sapporo one below, but that’s just a copy of what they were doing in the sixties.) Here’s some of the more interesting ones, including big glasses, big fringes, a cover that I can’t figure out no matter how much I look at it, and Kurt:
Filed under: in praise of athletic beauty, starfucking | Tags: Jean-Claude Killy
[nb: I got way overenthusiastic when I planned this week's SFF, so I'll be presenting it in six parts over the next couple of days.]
The sixties were by far the best decade of Sports Illustrated covers. The NFL was only starting to exist, the NBA wasn’t the all-consuming monster it would become, and people still cared about winter sports, which gave a diversity to the number of sports represented on the cover. Of course, you may be looking at the pictures below and thinking that by diversity I mean “a lot of white people,” but the few minorities that made the SI cover in the sixties (like Sonny Liston) tended to be big fugballs. Also, I’m not so attracted to Muhammad Ali, who made the first bunch of his 37 cover appearances in this decade. I’m much more partial to the wildly sexy Swedish heavyweight Ingomar Johansson, who was on three (I think) covers in 1960, including one for being man of the year. Anyway, here’s the ten hunkiest men on the ten hunkiest SI covers of the sixties, in chronological order: (more…)
I just finished reading Patricia Vettel-Becker’s Shooting From The Hip: Photography, Masculinity, and Postwar America. I won’t say I hated it, but I will say that in my groggy cold state last week I thought it was very boring, that she didn’t actually make many good points, and that kind of the most interesting idea she came up with was two sentences before the book was over. (more…)
What dancing! What acting! What hairdos!
If my life were a movie this song would definitely be in it. I’m not sure where, but I’ve listened to it literally hundreds of times over the last eight years or so, after I heard it on the radio for the first time in 1999.
It just never occurred to me to look for the video until today.
Or, why Kristin Hersh is the awesomest lady alive. She’s one of my favorite singers ever, and the one I’ve been listening to when I go to bed at night lately. She’s also possibly the only one I could imitate well in my current laryngitisy state. But here’s a Myspace bulletin she posted this morning:
Sorry I’m posting this so late in the day. I have a shitty cold, spent a lot of the day in traffic, and my roommate (whose computer I actually use because mine’s so old I can’t even use the internet on it) is also sick, so we’re sharing today. Anyway, this week’s mix is suitably bleak, except for one stretch in the second quarter where it stops being bleak briefly. Listen to it while you can, songs are only up for a week, buy the music legally if you like it, and so forth. On the bright side, last night I learned that sticking some bay leaves and lemon in hot water does wonders for the voice.
1. Spacemen 3, Lord Can You Hear Me?
2. Young Marble Giants, Posed by Models
3. Grizzly Bear, Deep Sea Diver
4. Tim Hardin, Black Sheep Boy
5. Frank Black, The Vanishing Spies
6. Lush, The Childcatcher
7. Madness, Bed and Breakfast Man
8. Joe Lean & the Jing Jang Jong, Lucio Starts Fires
9. The Raspberries, I Wanna Be With You
10. The Carpettes, Nothing Ever Changes
11. Gang of Four, Call Me Up
12. Low, When You Walked
13. Jefferson Airplane, She Has Funny Cars
14. The Notwist, Solitaire
15. Emmylou Harris, Sweet Old World
16. My Bloody Valentine, We Have All The Time In The World
17. Mobiles, Drowning In Berlin
18. Cheap Trick, Surrender
Probably you’ve noticed by now here on Starfucker Friday that there’s one specific type of guy that gets my hormones racing. I go for pale, solid, and scruffy, preferably in the 35 to 40 age range. I can’t help it, it’s just what I like. Which not to say that I’d necessarily say no to a barely legal boy—or his grandfather, for that matter—but generally I like them a little bit older than me and with some meat on their bones.
That’s why it’s all the weirder that the single hottest musician I’ve ever seen is Sondre Lerche: he’s a little younger than me; he’s a little bit on the twinky side; he has no facial hair. But the Norwegian singer-songwriter who is so smokin’ hot that I literally giggle and blush when confronted with him. (more…)
On this Thanksgiving week edition, something for everyone, including fans of early nineties dance pop, seventies punk, and oldies where it totally sounds like the backup singers are saying ‘poop chute.’ If you like the music, go out and buy it, preferably at a real store that could actually use your money and preferably not on Friday because who wants to deal with that. These songs are only here until next week’s mix goes up. (And if you’re new to this site and don’t get what’s happening, click here and you might get your question answered.)
1. Hyperbubble, Non Biodegradable Hazardous Waste Disposal
2. Ann Lee, 2 Times
3. Michel’le, No More Lies
4. Bis, The Hit Girl
5. Helen Shapiro, Not Responsible
6. Mr Bloe, Grooving With Mr Bloe
7. Gene Pitney, Who Needs It
8. The Pipettes, Simon Says
9. Rich Kids, Ghosts Of Princes In Towers
10. Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich, Hold Tight!
11. Blondie, No Imagination
12. Thee More Swallows, 2am
13. Dynasty Handbag, Open Up And Bleed
14. Kissing The Pink, Don’t Hide In The Shadows
15. Barry Blue, Dancing On A Saturday Night
16. Happy Mondays, Step On
17. Departure Lounge, Starport
18. Richard Hawley, Tonight The Streets Are Ours
….it talks about me having to pee. Awesome!
If any of you got here because of the Boston Herald article, hi. Nice to meet you.
Unrelatedly, this is my last day of work before my vacation starts. Yay!!
Last night my roommate and I went to Boston to see the Pipettes after someone I’ve never met mysteriously invited me via facebook message. Now, I know what happens when you get mysterious invitations to see your favorite band, but figured what the hey, it’s the Pipettes, right? And the invitation said it was a fashion show too and, you know, fashion shows are cool. And they said it was free if you brought an article of clothing for a holiday clothing drive. Easy enough, right?
