This morning, I went in for a routine cleaning at the dentist. As I sat in the waiting area, I picked up one of the magazines on the Pier One endtable. “Details.” Should be called “Entrails,” if you ask me. I thought about the days when Details was a magazine that was engaging and colorful to both read and look at. Intelligent and / or fun reportage. Imaginative fashion. And as a 17 year older (9 years ago….you know), unable to get into nightclubs, I could peer into a noctural club world and burn with envy. But now Details offers modern men cover stories like “400 ways to wear a brown corduroy vest with navy slacks!”

I started thinking about actually being at the dentist. I’ve never been phobic of dental appointments, like many, and in fact, I embrace that superclean feeling when you leave the office. Hmm, now where can I get a cup of enamal-staining coffee and cavity-breeding tarte tartin?

As I was flipping through “Entrails” from back to front (one paralyzing fashion spread after the next), I imagined being in the dental chair and how it’s like flying business class with a shop light in your face for the whole flight. With your shirt protected by a paper apron upon which dancing bunnies or ducks with umbrellas are printed, the dentist and her assistant cram all of their fingers into your open mouth at the same time.

They pare, prod, scrap and dislodge all the funky compost you’ve been unable to remove with your inferior, pedestrian toothbrush. Fortunately, they DON’T say things like, “So how was the spinach salad you ate a few days ago? Extra cranberries? Nice touch.” I considered the awkward suction tube that invariably makes tongue placement a big and ongoing deal — until it attaches itself to your uvula, forcing the dentist to stop the cleaning and allow your legs to cease flinching.

I thought, “What’s more absurd than this procedure we go through in order to not be a big, gross mush mouth?”

Then I turned the page and saw this ad.

Click image for the full experience.


Oh, hey, Tom….

What the hell?

Can anyone make sense of this? I mean first the Vanity Fair cover story where TF (whose hairy chest would make any member of www.bear411.com proud) is engaged in this orgy-lite with two ghostly milk maidens whose names escape me (for lack of interest) and now this…

I don’t know about you, but when my chest gets sweaty (say, when a tranny shoves her hand into my own ruffled tuxedo poet’s blouse, for example)…my face — and the rest of me — is also quite sweaty. The face of TF, however, is as moist-free as a freshly picked leaf of Papier Poudre. And no, the hot spot on his forehead doesn’t count.

Can anyone hook me up with the casting session tape for the arm model….

The First Fragrance for Men from Tom Ford
Available at…………..Nordstrom