The Man of the Hour

Time photographer Callie Shell has taken dozens of stunning, behind-the-scenes photos of Barack Obama and his family over the past several years, including this one (my favorite of the series):

View the entire gallery of thoughtful, powerful photos here. I defy you not to view the man in a new light once you've seen the holes on the bottom of his shoes. Or cleaning up his mess when he thinks no one's watching (my other favorite photo in the series):

Who You Callin' Old?

Another year older, not a heck of a lot wiser, but happy. I must thank my dear friends for the fabulous time I had celebrating my birthday Saturday night. We kept it simple--wine and cheese for a few friends at our place, then a scrumptious dinner (and very strong sangria--beware!) at Bogota Bistro, followed by desserts at The Chocolate Room (in spite of being ridiculously full from dinner).

We laughed. A lot. This is key when the birthday you are celebrating puts you closer to "middle-aged" than you care to acknowledge.

Now... check out the awesome birthday gift my darling boyfriend bought (and shlepped home on the subway!) for me:

I've been saying for years how much I miss playing the piano and have toyed with the idea of buying a simple keyboard. Well, Jason listened and now I can thrill him with the opening synth bit from Depeche Mode's "Just Can't Get Enough" anytime, day or night. Break out the leg-warmers and Aquanet!

We had a most relaxing day on my actual birthday (yesterday)--we lounged in PJs until 2pm, I fielded a bunch of phone calls and my slightly hungover boyfriend served up a delicious brunch, complete with fresh flowers on the table. Later, we ventured out to the Atlantic Antic, where we noshed on grilled corn on the cob, listened to music, checked out some awesome vintage buses (wish we'd remembered the camera!) and marveled at the sheer volume of Obama-related stuff. Still slightly hungover (damn sangria!), we staggered happily down Atlantic Ave., laughing and talking and kissing and enjoying the brief burst of sunshine the day finally coughed up for us.

Lastly, partly as a birthday gift to myself, I have finally purchased a new laptop. It will arrive in about a week and I look forward to more frequent postings in the near future.

Thanks again to all for the wonderful birthday wishes!

More on the Atlantic Antic: here, here and here.

In a Class All His Own...

One day when I was 16, my father brought home the 1987 Guess? calendar, featuring classic black-and-white photos of iconic celebrities. We were already well into the year, but someone at work had given my dad the calendar and he thought I'd appreciate it.

The calendar featured gorgeous shots of Faye Dunaway, Robert Redford, Brigitte Bardot and Robert Mitchum, among others.

Yet, from the very beginning, the photo I chose to display was that of a slightly smirking, 30-something Paul Newman, cigarette dangling from his lips. Even at 16, when my crushes included the likes of Rob Lowe, Robert Downey, Jr. and Morrissey, I could not ignore the magnetic pull of Paul Newman. I don't think I'd seen one of his movies. I couldn't fathom being attracted to someone over the age of 30; someone...you know...OLD.

I just knew he was beautiful. And that particular photo absolutely mesmerized this 16-year-old.

I'll admit, I am sadly unfamiliar with Newman's work as an actor. It was only last year that I saw The Sting for the first time and had the pants charmed right off me by that blue-eyed slice of heaven.

Yet, in spite of my limited exposure to his films, I was always inexplicably crazy about him. And not just because I love Newman's Own. (I've been a fan of the pasta sauce and salad dressing for years but only recently tried the salsa and...HOLY BUTCH CASSIDY...it's the best shit around. I don't care if it's $5 more, knowing the proceeds go mostly to charity, I buy the hell out of that stuff when I can.)

I actually knew little about Newman's Own (or the man himself) prior to devouring this excellent article in last month's Vanity Fair, ever grateful that I had renewed my subscription. Reading this piece, I gained a new respect for Newman's philanthrophy and inimitable sense of humor. And I made the sad realization that he wouldn't be around much longer.

I can thank Newman (or at least his sense of humor) for keeping me on the treadmill 15 minutes longer than usual last Saturday morning, watching MSNBC's retrospective of his life just hours after we learned he had died. I laughed out loud at a 1982 interview Gene Shalit conducted with him in Newman's living room, as the two munched on bread dipped in Newman's Own pasta sauce. Shalit asked what Newman put in the sauce that made it so delicious and, without skipping a beat, Newman answered, "Sulphuric acid."

I rarely, if ever, feel the desire to romanticize or idolize someone I've never met. But I have tremendous admiration for philanthropists, particularly those who find new and creative ways to raise money for people in need. People who do more than just write a check. His celebrated career and marriage notwithstanding, Paul Newman will forever have my admiration for doing what came naturally to him: using his wealth and popularity to provide for people in need. While making kick-ass salsa, to boot.