I'm pretty sure I've made my interest in John Gallagher Jr. known before, despite not watching Newroom, the show that brought his face to my attention, but Typepad has a useless search.
In real life he is 30.
On the fourth installment of Olive Kitteridge, he is maybe my age (I took the early scenes to be late '70s based on styles–I didn't pay attention to cars–but reviews refer to the story's 25-year span, which would be late '80s), a podiatrist living with his second wife who's pregnant (and drinks beer) and her two kids from previous relationships in a brownstone on Union Street. It's a mess, they have a tenant with a talking parrot, never mind it probably cost $2 million.
But before meeting this no makeup, co-op shopping-type lady with classically bratty, overindulged kids (the carefree personality and three kids by three dads didn't read particularly NYC to me) in group therapy, he might've been a hot childless divorcee catch. I would not appeal to him, but that wouldn't stop me from ogling him while he stopped into Henry Public for a turkey leg sandwich late night.
Also, minutes after typing that I need wicker in my apartment on Facebook, the above wicker divider appeared on screen. It's quite possibly the same wicker divider (it's no longer on Etsy) that has been on one of my Pinterest boards for a while.
This episode also contained a semi-puke that I didn't capture because I assumed it the precurssor to illness, but was emotionally induced after seeing a green apple peel that spurred a memory of a past almost-affair.
Olive Kitteridge was really good, if you want to know.
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