Timothy Dalton was a tiny little gorilla man with a plumber’s jaw; Pierce Brosnan was saddled with shitty scripts, CG, and directors; Daniel Craig is a mopey little fuck who spends too much time in the gym; Sean Connery was my father’s James Bond.
Gimme Roger Moore and his bemused smirk: we knew those movies were dumb, and so did he. It was like we were in it together.
Baby, you were the best.
Dontcha love when TotD gets a little wine in him? Fires up the YouTube and blasts those ol’ New Jersey Blues and feels sorry for himself directly at you?
I always did enjoy weaponizing my Pity Parties.
But no more of that. One maudlin day is acceptable, two in a row is an unfollow, and three is a Smiths record. Today is for life, liberty, and the pursuit of some nice-nice.
Today will be for The Sexy: songs that have it, Dead members that remembered to pack it, and–perhaps later–an epistemological and socio-ontologic dissection of what The Sexy is.
We start with a song that has so much Sexy it verges on parody. It was written for a James Bond film, and not one of the new ones where Bond is only allowed to have sex once a movie; one of the old flicks where 007 barely has time to put his dick back in his pants.
Plus, it was written by Marvin Hamlisch, who never forgot to bring his Sexy to whatever award show he had been invited to.