This week it's Bill Cosby. He's on NPR this morning, talking about weight management and cholesterol, and of course earlier I was stunned to discover that around the time I was born, he was incredibly hot.
Well, I compounded my trauma last night by watching the I Spy reunion movie. And I have to say, I am going to carry that image of Cosby naked in a bucket of ice to my grave. To my grave, I tell you.
It wasn't all that bad, exactly. At least it didn't make the mistake that The Fifteen Years Later Affair made--of separating the partners for nearly the entire duration of the movie. The bitchy, quarrelsome, cantankerous old married couple dynamic between Kelly and Scotty was intact--improved, even. (In fairness, the other kind of old-married-couple dynamic--the one where they finish each other's sentences and move like two limbs of the same animal--between Napoleon and Illya was also intact in the precious few scenes they got together in Fifteen Years Later. Four fine actors, all doing their jobs with aplomb, and a pleasure to watch in any circumstances--except perhaps naked in a bucket of ice.)
But. Damn. The only way the I Spy reunion could have been slashier is if they'd shown Kelly and Scotty falling into bed together (another image I will now carry to my grave. To my grave!). That wasn't subtext: that was a red flag.
I'm probably hyspersensitized to slash currently, having just spent six months in Kit Marlowe's rather smut-infested head. But.