Aye, Aye Alec

I am not a follower of the stars. I care not that Bragelina is breeding again, or how often Brittney Spears flashes her panties. It's information that I inadvertantly absorb while standing in line at the grocery but not sought on purpose.

However, I do love those Baldwin boys. I like to think I am special and can pick up charisma through the veneer. It maybe obtuse, but I always felt Alec Baldwin in particular was a little something special. The movie that did it for me ... "Hunt for Red October."

I know, I know. It's ridiculous. I also care not for you opinion. I was smitten with Alec from that moment forward. His voice has a melody. His dark eyes, that thick dark hair. That smile. And the chunkier he got, the more I loved him. Nothing better than a little meat on a man. Throw in the fabulous sense of humor (see Saturday Night Live, Shweddy Balls) and I was a goner.

I know he's had his emotional drama, but haven't we all.

The reason I feel the need to explain my Baldwin fetish is the recent article in the Vanity Fair about said Alec. Not only is it about the brooding beauty, it is fabulously written. And in a manner that resembles my own.

Baldwin plays rogue operatives with so many hidden compartments that even they seem unprepared for the jack-in-the-box surprises that pop out of them under duress. They’re so deep into intrigue that their identity is in flux, a series of impersonations with Camp intonations. The speedy dexterity with which Baldwin’s Jack Donaghy embroiders bizarre conceits on 30 Rock is the stuff of foppish, Restoration comedy, if Restoration comedy came out of a cocktail shaker. Even in blocky repose, using his hands with dainty finesse and making kissy lips as he plays crafty mind games with a never-ending ammo clip of non sequiturs and off-the-wall observations, Baldwin projects potent energy in reserve, the power to tear somebody in two as if they were a croissant. Burly, hirsute, and self-parodyingly butch, Baldwin has carved out his own wild kingdom of macho-effeminate; in gay parlance, he’s a straight “bear,” a chewy chunk of beefsteak.

Now my balls are Schweddy...