You know the problem with Thanksgiving?
The Day After.
Because the day after Thanksgiving, I always feel like such a slug. It's pretty tiring, all this merry thankfulness. 'Cause, you know, I'm thankful for just about everything. Well, except Crocs. Those can go.
How sluggish do I feel? So sluggish, I can't even walk the dog. I can't even muster up enough enthusiasm to finish my post on Elvis's jumpsuits. And I could not care less, less, Party People, that I am wearing every bit of fleece I own (well, to be fair, temps did plummet yesterday and it did snow overnight, so at least it's cold). Likewise, the fact that I could at this very moment be stalking the racks at the brand spanking new Anthropologie store in Albuquerque, taking advantage of a bazillion percent off that gorgemous Sleeping on Snow tunic sweater I've been itching for all fall, only makes Moi go: Meh. Where's my blankie?
But, all is not lost. In the hour and a half before LSU takes on Arkansas, I did manage to watch Evil Dead on satellite, a guilty pleasure for a sluggish day for sure, which led me to ponder the unsung pop cultural significance of Bruce Campbell's square-cut jawline. Which somehow led me to ponder this:
If you're going to name someone The Sexiest Man Alive, then for goodness sakes alive, you for ding dang sure better put a sexy photo of said winner on your cover! I loves me some Matt Damon as much as the next red-blooded film fan, especially when he gets all muscled up and steely-eyed for those Bourne movies. But here he looks less like a man of steel and more like a man who just finished dragging his ass at 2:00 a.m. to the nearest Wal-Fart for diapers for the Baby Bourne only to return home to a bloated Luciana screaming from the bedroom in Italian or Portuguese or whatever the heck her native language is for more Yoplait pronto.