Something told me you'd need it, and by something, I mean common sense.

Suits is over. For now.

Let us quench our thirst for the hottest-lawyer-best-closer-this-city-has-ever-seen yada-yada-yada.

Source.

Source.

Source.

Source.

Source.

I'm so so so sorry for the hotness overload. I just miss my regular Harvey Specter injections.

Harvey Specter is cocky, smart and HOT. And I am a sucker for a smart guy and for a hot guy, so those tributes alone would make my day regardless.

A few bits of Harvey's wisdom that make my sapiosexual self go completely nuts:

"Why don't you check out the corner of 81st and kiss my ass?"
"I refuse to answer on the grounds that I don't want to."
"We've been crossing lines long before we even met!"
"I'm against HAVING emotions, not USING them."
"Do I think I'm smarter than you? You're damn right I do!"
"I'm not interested in great. I want to know who it's daddy is."

But there's more to his appeal. He knows what he wants and has no issues going out and getting it. He likes his scotch neat and his jazz clean. There's his fantastic swagger, and he's kind of brilliant at his job. And he can wear the hell out of a sharp suit.

May I add that, to a heterosexual woman, a man in a well cut suit is pretty much the equivalent to what lingerie is to a heterosexual man.

By far, one of the most fuckable characters on TV. Ever. Vampire Eric and Don Draper end up totally mousy in comparison. And me loves me some Vampire Eric, mind you.

Yum, yum, yum.

Jules

P.S. Despite Harvey's all-around awesomeness and fuckability, my dear Z prefers Mike. So, for Z's eyes only:

Source.

P.P.S. It's going to be months before Harvey returns to my screen. When he does, the Phelps will keep him company. Boo-yeah! But still, it's MONTHS away.

Luckily, this will return soon to help with the withdrawals. Hello, Neal Caffrey. I love you, too.

Source.

P.P.S. The title of this post is actually one of Harvey's stellar quotes. Love me some Harvey wisdom. Goes well with the hotness.

P.P.P.S. Harvey Specter is portrayed by Gabriel Macht, Mike Ross is played by Patrick J. Adams and Matt Bomer is the actor who makes Neal Caffrey a bit less fictional. Boys, you are all delicious.

Ceci n'est pas une pipe. Magritte.

Magritte's exhibit opens at MoMA tomorrow, which means that yesterday was the last day of member previews, which means I went. Yesterday. 

I just needed a hefty dose of food for the soul, since I've been spending most of my days cooped up in the lab, missing out on the gorgeous september days in New York. Ouch.

Les Amants.
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La Trahison des images (Ceci n'est pas une pipe).
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Monsieur Magritte was one great, amazing, crazy son of a bitch. I love his work. Have loved him since that fantastic month-long trip to Belgium, Luxembourg, Holland and Germany I took with a great friend back in 2004. We were young, extremely thrifty at milking our student status, and had surprising upper body strength - hello, enormous backpacks. 

It was during that trip that I discovered the pleasures of double-fried fries in Brugge, beer, Bao Bao (RIP), and how MoMA looked on vacation in Berlin (hint: it WAS crowded). Also, it was on that trip that I fell in love with modern art by visiting places like this, this, this and this. And, of course, braving the crowds to see the above-mentioned "Das MoMA in Berlin" and other goodies. 

Clairvoyance
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This time around, I feel almost at home at MoMA, and I was more than happy to let Monsieur crazy-ass Magritte take me down his rabbit hole. There are a lot of works on display and the exhibit is beautifully curated. I expect it will be a hit, so I am quite happy I managed take part of the previews and share the view with a manageable crowd.

I'm no conoisseur, but in my opinion, Magritte's genious lays in his unusual juxtapositions. His personal brand of surrealism is less fantastic than for example Dali's. With Dali's work, you're immediately transported into a different world, where the ordinary is so very intertwined with the extraordianry, but the extraordinary wins by a hefty margin. Magritte is different. More subtle, if you will. At first glance, you notice something "off" with the (strikingly realistically depicted) objects in the painting, but it takes a second or two to actually see what is "off". 

Many of the works on display made me smile or even giggle, but quite a few were downright disturbing. 

Among my favourites were Clairvoyance, a self portrait from 1936, Les Amants, from 1928, and La Reproduction Interdite, from 1937. Rape (from 1934), on the other hand, completely freaked me out.

Marry me, Julian Barnes! Or something.

I'm currently reading three or four books, see. 

I simply do not possess the resilience to have just one book open and read it in one go. I guess I am a book glutton. Of course, that means that I am capable of "reading" a book for six months. Maybe because that particular one is my "lunchtime" book, or my current "serious" read, or my "trashy secret guilty pleasure of the moment that can only be consumed in absolute privacy". Meh... 

Maybe I just suck at being consistent.

Well, by far my favourite "unwind with a glass of pinot in the evening" of the bunch is Pulse, Julian Barnes' collection of short stories.

Lovely cover. And this book is made of paper. And ink.
And has pages and the lovely book smell!
Kindle is a little jealous, I think.

And here's the reason why - ok, one of MANY reasons:  

----

"The chocolates?"

"No, the drawings."

"I used to love a cigar. It didn't have to be a whole one. Half would do."

"They gave you different cancers, didn't they?"

"What did?"

"Cigarettes, pipes, cigars. Didn't pipes give you lip cancer?"

"What did cigars give you?"

"Oh, the poshest kind."

"What's a posh cancer? Isn't that a contradiction in terms?"

"Bum cancer's got to be the bottom of the pile."

J. Barnes, Pulse - At Phil and Joanna's 1

----

That's a dinner conversation a group of friends are having during dinner. I'm still chuckling. A few minutes ago, I was laughing hard. 

I love you, Barnes.

Jules