Word: jacketed
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Imagine an Auden less reticent about the (male) objects of his affection, or a Philip Larkin shedding his librarian's tweeds for a leather jacket and motorcycle boots. Such imagined metamorphoses might give new readers some sense of the lively pleasures awaiting them in the poetry of Thom Gunn, 70. Those who have watched his distinguished career evolve over nearly half a century need, of course, no such introduction; news that a new book of Gunn's poems has arrived is enough to start their celebrations...
...towards each. The plot has an element of fantastic unreality which leaves one wondering if Bananas is in fact the only sane character in the show. Within this dizzying action the mystery of Bananas' sickness and her underlying personality unfolds as we watch her fondle her husband's discarded jacket and blossom only after his off-handed and infrequent caresses. The lines and body language are in fact so smoothly delivered and genuine that the powerful emotions, hidden among comical repartee, sneak up and surprise the audience. With a well-timed pause and a softening of his voice, Artie...
...Luke Perry. See ya De Niro. Gone are the days when the leather jacket-wearing, motorcycle-riding, joint-smoking, potty-mouthed rebel was sexy. No one wants a bad boy anymore. Women, it seems, have traded in the "man" for the "boy"-the ultra-sensitive male, the girl's guy. What distinguishes a "boy" from a "man?" A boy is secure in his sexual ambiguity-he works in the mud by day, cooks and writes verse by night. A boy doesn't pose because he knows the attraction of his own feminine appeal. But do girls really want...
...methods have been taken to obtain them." The irony, of course, is that now we would say even the most "civilized" mid-nineteenth-century American lived a life far more primitive than any imaginable today. No Coca-Cola (nor plastic bottle in which to hold it); no Gore-Tex jacket (nor zipper with which close it); no Chevy Blazer (nor asphalt on which to drive it). Really, how can you talk about gross necessaries when you haven't even been to Filene's Basement...
...Wolfe's allegory for masculinity seems a strange choice, however. White, after all, is his signature. At Mansfield's, Wolfe showed up in his sartorial trademark: a white jacket with a white vest, white-striped shirt, white tie, white handkerchief, white slacks and black-trimmed white shoes. His reading glasses, with thick white frames, resembled two Chinese soupspoons with holes in the center, fused together. He looked as though he had raided the closet of Andy Warhol, Truman Capote or maybe Elton John. They are, after all, empty closets these days. One could hardly help asking onesself, "What...