On Sunday, one of Boston’s founding fathers was seen out and about in Los Angeles, somehow looking moderately busy, a disposition that many celebrities are remarkably good at inhabiting. In several photos captured by shrub-hidden paparazzi, Ben Affleck got out out of his car, got back in his car, carried some groceries, and glowered all the while. The actor and Academy Award winner does not seem happy. This is not surprising. He’s had a red-letter year, after all: womanizing, allegedly drinking and gambling, and divorcing his way back into the grimy spotlight seems tiresome, and that’s without the added pressure of convincing the general public that he is a good enough “Batman.” What a life! But at least he has me.
I love Ben’s man-boobs. Despite his current frame of mind, his infidelity, his inexplicable loyalty to the city of Boston, his supposed drug use and bizarre behavior (did we ever find out what was up with that golden retriever?), I can’t take my mind off his bulbous pecs and the tight T-shirts he wears to display them. He hasn’t always had them, of course; the theory is that he was asked to get swoll for his Batman role, then went through a public divorce, and now is left with a body type somewhere between super-fit and slobby. A sad man in a fit-ish body. A fascinating specimen.
It’s hard to say what exactly is so delightful and preoccupying for me when it comes to Affleck’s man-boobs. Is it a desire to know what they really look like in the buff? Is it a natural extension of the celebration of dadbod? Is it because somehow Affleck looks both sad and ripped, smug and puffy? How does this man embody so much that is bad but also inspire such confusing arousal? The only thing I know for sure is that I’m grateful that jackets are not a staple in the everyday Los Angeles wardrobe, if you catch my drift.