jock inch(es)/french twist

So while unable to sleep due to the thrilling international events going on closer to home (namely, a Scot taking up a large portion of my bed), I stumbled upon the strange and thrilling world of Olympic coverage of random events no one watches.

But, oh, they should.  Because:

Badminton Player Przemyslaw Wacha, of Poland [Sven Heise's image stolen from here].

I caught about five seconds of the match, but clearly he is worth investigating further.  Not merely for the endless, easy "Pole" and "shuttlecock" jokes.  There's  "invading him by surprise like it was 1939" just for starters.  ;)

It should be noted that I've *yet* to watch the opening ceremonies because, well, NBC was foolish enough not to air them live and I had the chance to catch up with an old  friend.  Over dinner, we discussed how the gorgeous and talented Carla Bruni [fine, Carla Bruni-Sarkozy] is quickly becoming my obsession and the coolest woman alive.  Among our fascinating recent discoveries?  She (a) found her first meeting with him incredibly awkward because she hadn't voted for him  and (b) her worth when they wed was 20 times her husband's.  AWKWARD. And totally awesome.  I bought her album at Amoeba and will return with my review forthwith. Yes, she's a model turned singer turned First Lady.  But she's cool anyway.  Because she, as they say, keeps it real.  Her VF cover pullquote?  "It's not that I had a lot of lovers - it's that I never hide them."  C'est bad-ass.  

Meanwhile, because one (or several) good turn deserves another and because he indirectly inspired this Olympic hottie post, I must refer you to bstewart doing his part for his Canadian countrymen by, well, showing us the parts of his Canadian countrymen.

  

there are two colors in my head....

And they're, like, fuschia polka dots and neon orange.

So. My first hangover in MONTHS. And it's bad. Real bad.

Normally, I don't get hungover because I am the H2O police. Good rule of thumb to follow is for every two drinks, drink a pint glass of water. Honestly, that's some of the best advice my dad ever gave me.

But now, I want to DIE. I want the world to end in a firey blaze and take me with it.

Long story short - due to the soul-crushing task of packing up my apartment and the rage-inducing fact that Amoeba wouldn't take half the CDs I had just spent importing to Itunes, cleaning, finding the right cases for....I had to have "one drink" to calm my nerves.

One drink turned into several. And I hadn't eaten all day. Every cute guy had a boyfriend. Yet still flirted with me. Including one *right in front of his boyfriend* because they have "an open relationship." WTFever. Miss Kay Rose called and invited me to go eat. So I did. We ate at a bar. So more drinking. Then she made me MOVE HER FURNITURE. [Because I'm moving in with her soon.] I was fine driving because I did do the water-binge, plus about a kilo of caffeine. Came home, looked at FOOB, may or may not have posted something at CPMCoG.

Turned on the TiVo to watch...something.

PASSED OUT ON MY FUCKING COUCH.

I woke up less than 2-3 hours later and now can't get back to bed.

Because there is a RABID FUCKING DOG eating MY BRAIN.

Kill me now, kill me later, just kill me.

coincidence...

OR PURE EVIL!?

A requiem in three parts:

• While filming License to Wed earlier this year in a certain building belonging to a certain BFF, Robin Williams is milling about downtown. Besides the two of us starting the only interesting (i.e. completely false) rumor ever to exist about Mandy Moore, I stumble into this hilarious idea, which I consistently joke about with aforementioned BFF: "Hey, since the only time Robin Williams was agreed to be super funny was the 70s - which was when he was really coked out - wouldn't it be absolutely hysterically awesome if we invite him back to your place to drink and do some lines? Yeah, I don't know where we're going to get blow, but come on, it would be so funny! And then he could be awesome in the movie and be funny again! I mean, he'd have to go back to rehab after filming, but we'd be doing the world a favor by making Robin Williams funny!" Uh. Prophecy Much?
  

• I was watching bits and pieces of On Her Majesty's Secret Service the other day and kept thinking how sorta hot George Lazenby was. Then I remembered that Lazenby was Australian, and mused on how based on the experiences of me and selected friends, they tend to be both (a)pretty hot, as a people. And (b)absolutely awesome in bed. [whereas the Brits have the cute accents but couldn't shag to save their lives. This is probably why Fleming actually wrote Bond as a Scot]. I was thinking how nice and hot it would be to, well, BAD PUN AHEAD, "go down under." Lo and behold, later that night? Exactly that scenario happens!
  
  
  
• Less conclusive is the fact that Miss Kay Rose (aforementioned BFF) bought me an much-needed umbrella the other day when it was raining and now I'm going to see her again and it's raining again. But still. COINCIDENCE?.....or evil?

Superduper irony alert:I love how my very first post was slagging Broadway Bar and now I'm looking for a place downtown preferably within walking distance of it, Miss Rose and Miss Magnolia. Bizarre to the max. Massive hugs to the cool bartenders who enable us so. Just, uh, try to get a pair of indie rock glasses, J. Miss Rose would like it so. And by "her," I mean "me." And by "a pair of indie rock glasses," I mean, "assless chaps." Doesn't everyone?

team firecrotch forever.

Besides Blogger being a bitca and rendering me unable to format properly in Safari (biting the hand that publishes me, no?), there's VERY IMPORTANT breaking news:

Paris. Hit. Lindsay.

x17 has the video up here.

(see how easy it is to link rather than steal? coughcoughPEREZcoughcough. Sidenote and true story: I saw that jackhole wearing an ugly scarf in the middle of August. In Los Angeles. When it's 1000+ degrees out. No thanks to global warming. Which Lindsay causes, you know.)

Meanwhile. Certain people - Joan, Krystal, everyone - know of my undying Lohan love and obsession. I hate her! I love her! She's a scoundrel! She's a saint! She's crazy! She's a genius! (apologies to Orson Welles and Citizen Kane). But seriously. Not cool, Paris. And unlike you, Lindsay has actually done something with her life. Okay?

ETA: Just Jared has pictures of that other lovely Firecrotch, Prince Harry, being all shirtless and playing Indiana Jones.. Wow. I know he's pasty and British. But hot damn. Plus, he seems cheeky and fun and if you check the CPMCoG forums, you know the boy is hung like a horse. A very well-endowed horse. Sure, he wore that Nazi uniform, but so did Rolf in SoM, right?

Shut up in advance, teenyboppers,William is rapidly balding and losing his looks...and favoring his dad's features. Also, you're not a 14-year old girl anymore.

EETA:Meanwhile, the LiLo drama (I won't dignify to call it a "feud") grows stranger as Lindsay calls Paris a "cokehead" (the Columbian calling the powder Bolivian, no?), Nicky drops the "firecrotch" bomb. Then Hilton flack/evil genius Elliot Mentz arranges for a photoop as BFFs? With Britbot? Huh? What is going on?

COBRA. third act and denoue-something.

SUPERDUPER RETCON DISCLAIMER:
These postings were written while I hadn't had a good night's sleep in DAYS. Lack of sleep makes me, well, punch-drunk (despite what H----- told you on her blog on lies, I was not ACTUALLY DRUNK while writing these entries). But, yeah, no sleep makes for a slightly manic, incoherent me. Oh, and I know nothing about football, but, man, that TV Class sure did a number when it came to analyzing advertizing and tropes and shit?

Proceed at your own risk. You may probably be offended if you're a person who knows or cares about Football, Trojans, letting quarterbacks and Joe Scarborough *not* be sexually harassed online by me, etc.
-----------------------------------------

So I recorded the last five minutes of King Cobra during halftime and will catch up on it later. Here's the psuedoliveblog wrapup:

-----

I love the word “rout.”

11/25/06 7:20:55 PM

PIZZA. FINALLY. And a drink. Finally.

Now the liveblog/recap will become even less coherent.

But more entertaining!

11/25/06 7:27:59 PM

Alls I know is that we scored while I was away.

And commentatorbot3000 says that Brady Quinn is pissed. I could always “comfort” him later. Sleeping with the enemy makes the sex SO MUCH HOTTER! (That’s why my embarrassing crush Joe Scarborough and I are gonna have bed-breaking action. Imagine all that hate and yelling channeled into more, uh, productive arenas).

COMMENTATOR: “We’ve seen [Brady] come back after taking a hard sack!”

THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!

Wait, that makes no sense.

The coaches’ nicknames are Little Tuna and Big Tuna? Are we sure I’m not accidentally watching the Office? (and Ed Helms’s brilliant turn?)

Okay, now the commentator just said “penetrating front.”

I have only had a sip of my drink. So dirty, right?

Oh, now he’s breaking out big words like “infallible.”

So…is the line “infallible” or not? I can’t tell.

INCOMPLETE! One of my favorite words. Except in a school context. Then it was bad because I had too many.

How can one take a phone call on the field? Why is it an old corded phone? Wouldn’t a cell be easier? Plus, hello, easy, breezy, beautiful product placement. The Cingular Cylon Blackjack: The Official Phone of Bradyquinn when he’s pissed.

Wow. Another incomplete. But for us. Boo.

Man, I love movie ads and their fuzzy math. I mean, yes, Bond 21 is technically the number one movie in THE WORLD. But I remember when The Breakup was like “number one comedy in the country” for weeks after it dropped from the box-office.

My TiVo is about to change to the CW (pronounced Cwah, per someone smarter than me) to record the Gilmores and Miss Mars (it was preempted on Tuesday for Clippers/Lakers).


COMMETATORBOT3K: “Long enough and he’s got it!” DIRTY!

31 USC/ 17 ND. Still no comment to prevent jinxing.

Per H-----’s question: Anyone know anything about “The Terrace” in Pasadena? There’s a band we need to see on the 8th and want details.

HALFTIME COBRA

11/25/06 6:27:00 PM

“Brady Quinn brings the Irish up.”Is that different than “get your irish up?” One means fighting. Speaking of Irish. I still haven’t had a drink.

Would a Rob Roy with Dubonnet Rouge rather than Sweet Vermouth be totally gross? I don’t have soda for the New School Old-Fashioned. Yes, I invented the New School Old Fashioned.(after the game, I did).

How did I get so sweaty? I have to move. I need real AC.

Commentators make a Will Ferrell joke.

OH PLEASE LET WILL FERRELL BE THERE.

Oh, Yeah, commentators. John David Booty is shaking. Because he knows what I will do to him tonight. That’s shaking with joy. Not fear.

Why is the past footage all color-treated? Weird.

Football has too many timeouts. I went out and was able to smoke a Nat Sherman and order a pizza at 2:45 left. And now there’s 30 seconds. And Nat’s take forever to smoke.

Rose Bowl! I know a queen. Sophia Bush, FWIW. And yes, she’s as pretty (if not moreso) in person. And nice. I just wish I still had her number so that I could tell her that I would punch the Chadster if she asked.

USC 21/ND 10. At the half. I’m saying nothing because I don’t want to jinx it. I am my mother, you know, and she has wicked bad jinxing mojo when it comes to football.

Pete Carroll has REALLY KIND eyes.

I love the word “rout.”

This insurance ad will make me cry.

COBRA. CONTINUED.

[This is what happens when I attempted to watch the USC/ND football game - despite knowing *nothing about football* while channel-flipping to a crappy movie called King Cobra, while drinking and IMing H----- while semi live-blogging my thoughts. Be afraid, be very afraid.]

Southwest ad. Lavender explodes. Hell no.

Oh, Bonaventure Hotel! SHOUTOUT!

does queen latifah get a houseboat everytime a pizza hut ad airs?

David Landry would be cute if he shaved.

Our Song Girls and Cheer Guys (they have a specific name) could kick ND’s lame cheer asses. And then have cheer sex with the enemy.

Wow.

THEY JUST RAN A NAVIGATIONAL SYSTEM LAST AD BREAK!

I hate that. Seriously. Only one ad per company every few hours. Or else you should get fined as much as CBS did for Nipplegate. If it’s different versions of the same ad or there is a narrative continuing, then it’s okay. But otherwise, stop running the same ads NONSTOP. This is why I don’t watch anything “live” anymore.

I want a Blackjack though I think it may be a Cylon Device. Nothing that fancy and lust-worthy, tech wise, is possible without the potential of it becoming a killer robot.

But they may be a risk I’m willing to take. If only it came in a Number Six model.

Why is everything breaking? How is showing a car breaking a good car ad? Because the other cars are unbreakable, I guess. Or something.

Dudes. I love this ad with the jockstrap and the phone and the killer huge lockerroom dude. Man is built! And I even love pudgy pale average guy. I hate John Madden. HATE. But that’s what having an ex who would rather play Madden 04 on PS2 than get a mind-numbing blowjob will do to you.

Plus, I think he may be evil. And he collapsed into self-parody many years ago. Just like Jack Nicholson. There is no John Madden or Nicholson. But only “Madden” and “Nicholson.”

Pete Carroll has kind eyes.

EWW. ND Touchdown. HELLS TO THE NO!

the thing about rejection is...

You feel like a fucking reject afterwards.

Sigh. Look, I know that certain situations aren't ideal and I shouldn't take it personally. But god/Xenu help me, I do. Completely hypothetically, one of this situations would be, say, posting a Craigslist ad, getting a response and having a guy come over (after a good deal of back and forth-ing via email).

30 minutes later, guy arrives, guy calls, guy is downstairs.

I go downstairs, open the door, the guy says "it's okay' and just fucking walks away.

No explanation, no apology, nothing Not one goddamn thing.

What the hell, dude?

Seriously, I sent a picture, you made the drive -- what did you fucking expect?

Should I not have been wearing sweats? Should my hair be shorter? Should I have come down holding a football and a fucking Maxim to butch it up for you?

Honestly, I don't think beggars can be choosers at 4 in the morning.

And yet, I take it personally. Which says more about my state of mind than anything else. Because god forbid it should be his problem because he's probably a fucking weirdo cokehead or something. Nope, it's *my* fault. If there were a crime scene and I was standing next to the person holding a bloody knife, I'd probably find a way to blame myself for being a bad influence and not preventing the murder.

Any wonder why I want plastic surgery at 25? If it's good enough for Jessica Simpson...

And yes, I may have been told I had "movie star looks" a mere 48 hours earlier. But I didn't believe them -- the rejection, the outright snubbing? That I believe in.

Because the thing is, I never had to rely on my looks growing up. So I don't have the practice for it. Don't have that confidence in my skin. But now? I want to rely on those looks. I'm tired of being funny, being smart, being charming. Being one of the few guys in the bar who could manage a decent conversation, who could banter with the best of them.

Yep, six years in LA and I'm broken & bruised enough to give up and join the beautiful people.

It's almost Shakespearian in its poetry...

So, Calliope and I reunited last Sunday. Sure, she may just be using me for her Buffy fix because I got her completely addicted, but I love her anyway. We venture to Swork because Kay needs our company-slash-is using us to bring her food.

Anyways, it's been like a thousand degrees in LA, so a blended beverage seemed like the frosty, reasonable choice. Kay claims she can do a strawberry shake but that's another one of her lies. Because the gelato was raspberry. Point being, she orders me up a specialty shake. Mitzye and I are counter-bound, waiting for our refreshments.

I notice the boy baristas talking while fixing my shake.

Me: Why are they making fun of my milkshake?
Callipe, with complete deadpan sincerity: Because it brings all the boys to the yard?

I still have no words, people. No words.

Well, there goes my non-innocence...

Thanks to StickyKeys, I checked out ohnotheydidn't this very early morning (late night, whatever, semantics) and feel so bummed out:





[image ganked from Getty, obviously]

Hell to the nah.

Let's all be greatful he's still hung like a horse, okay? To think that Owen is the one with the stallion-based nickname. If anyone would like to send evidence, reports, him to my house to confirm this rumor, that'd be great.

Because it helps to focus on a happy place. Other than the fact that I need to gain (yet more) weight so that I can wear that incredible suit. It's so gorgeous that I wouldn't even want him to step out of it -- which may be good, considering the girth Vince is displaying, and not the fun girth either.

In completely unrelated news, I bring you two recent items of note from some celeb boards:

From the BI Thread, from 7/31's NYDN:

Which actor, shooting a film opposite a certain tabloid-fodder actress, is popular on the set, even though he needs a break between each take to accommodate his monster cocaine habit?

We also happened to discuss "coke bloat" on the "Everything You Wanted to Know About" thread. If anyone else has more info or scientific theories, that'd be awesome. For research purposes, of course.

To quote Brittany Murphy: "I've never even seen cocaine."