Dear Taylor Kitsch (& Readers & Dan Cone)

Dear Taylor Kitsch,

From you, I have never once hid the fact that I am a cheating slut, nor that I would dump your exceptionally and perfectly curved bum, in an instant, were Coach Eric Taylor interested in cheating on Tammy (even though I pretend that I would not hurt the sisterhood in this fashion, I would stab Tammy for a chance to fumble Coach Eric Taylor's football). But that's neither here nor there. What is both here and there is that to the list of descriptives you use when you are bored and sad and miss and talk about me to your friends, you may now add 'fickle', because I am back.

I am back and ask that you forgive me my indiscretions with Jared Padalecki.
As much as I love his physique ability to speak to theology and politics, his hairstyle is setting alight dormant aspirations to hair dressing that I know will disappoint my mum ("some of my best friends are hair dressers..."). Also, Rigglett, unlike you when you are busily sexing your females, he doesn't appear to make use of his tongue very often. Since we are all very aware of the Fact that tongues are the sisterhood's BFF, this reality poses grave and disconcerting news for all, most especially I who - having waited 34 years - isn't interested in a non-tonguer. (Thank you for your time Jared 'non-tonguer' Padalecki, and good bye.)

This morning, a reader sent me this fantastic video of you being dumb (and I mean, like, in the smartest most intelligent way) and cute and very British Columbian Canadian when you declare:
"What? Are you? kidding me?
This was. I can. Can I swear?
Holy shit. Man.
That's the first time. He uh. He put the flies down.
somethingsomethingmumbleTaylorhassomethinginhismouthanditsnotmesoIdontcare
This is like.
Do you know when you're on tv? and the fuckers had the fish on the line and like? they just said action.
This is insane man.
somethingsomethingmumblemumble".

Being an Ontario native, I have a very hard time fighting off the seductive prowess of West Coast hippies such as yourself.
Will you take me back?
If you'd like, I will send you a photo of myself in a bikini while wearing thigh-high rubber boots, with a FlyFishPole in one hand...if there is such a thing...and a potted plant in the other, and standing in a pool because rivers and ponds and lakes give me the heebie jeebies.

I look forward to our reunion,
Maha
P.S. I reserve the right to cheat on you again, with whomever pleases me.


Dear Readers,

Taylor Kitsch enjoys working with sick children.
Anyone have a non-contagious one I can borrow?

Really, very grateful,
Maha


Dear Dan Cone, FlyFishingFriend of Taylor Kitsch,

I really appreciate your use of the word "channelizes"; a word I did not even know existed until watching the above linked-to video.
It is my word of the day: I am a girl who channelizes all of her energy into her make-believe cartoon life.

Thank you,
Maha

Dear So-and-So

Dear Taylor Kitsch,

Hi Rigglett. How are you? I am very well - more so than usual, because Ramadan is over and I may now have my morning venti americano with a lot of milk.

Also, I have been cheating on you ever since Jared Padalecki took off his shirt. I thought you should know.

Thanks for the memories,
Maha
P.S. I hope you don't think of me as a slut for cheating on you, unless, of course, you like cheating sluts, in which case, I remain yours forever.


Dear Jared Padalecki,

Hi. How are you? I am good.

You look terribly smart in your towel and I bet you love to talk about politics and theology.

Also, thank you for being the descendant of People With Fantastic Genes. Really, seriously. Unlike yours, my Tribe is not fitted up by People With Fantastic Genes, but rather People With Alright Genes And Every Once In A While, You Know...Not Too Shabby And We Can Really Surprise You.

Also, please undress more often.
Er...! I hope you like the font color I have chosen in honor of you.

I love your body,
Maha
P.S. I am having great difficulty not calling you DEAN as I loved you very much on Gilmore Girls. Much more so than dirty Jess and definitely more so than the blonde man-child who Rori dated for much too long.

P.S. no 2 Please cut your hair, my love. Or grow it to one length. Anything but bangs..'cus bangs are for pixies. And, because your eyes are lovely and tiny, you should really watch out about water retention - it'll show very quickly most around your eyes. (You're welcome.)


Dear Connie Britton & Kyle Chandler,

HI! HOW ARE YOU?
O! So happy that we're talking again!
I miss the both of you equally.
I understand you will be away until the slut Executives at whichever stupid place you work for have decided it's time for you to return because they are completely out of touch with reality the stupid wanks that they are.

I thought I would let you know that your absence is noted and you are missed by both myself and every single one of my 9 friends who I have introduced to Friday Night Lights.

That is all (insert sad emoticon here, please),
Maha
P.S. This shade of font is called "lavender blush". I don't get it, either.
P.S. Coach Eric Taylor? I would trade both above mentioned children Taylor Kitsch and Jared Padalecki for you in your angry man shorts. xo

NEWS BULLETIN to All Females

Only because I have been seeing one too many photos of women of all ages with this facial expression. (NSFW)

That facial expression (best articulated by offspring of pimp parents), is ridiculous not sexy, Daisy Duck not Angelina, laughable not lubricious.

I have yet to meet a man interested in sexing it up with a woman who looks like her lips are caught within one of these:



And in case I wasn't clear: You look stuipd. (And I can't fkn spell.)

You're welcome.

**********
By the way - the photo is of Queen of the Ridiculous Daisy Duck Laughables, M**** Cyr*s. I must bleep her name out as I don't wish to have her equally stupid fans descend upon this interWeb home, taking their q from those crickets or whichever insect that attack a town in the version of the Bible I can not remember...maybe 7.3?. (I am really much too lazy to Google - that's how much I give a shit about her brand of Jesus Lovin' (as she grinds her ass against a stripper pole in front of an audience).)

Also, I am not spell checking this post. Take that, M#$@%.

Kyle Chandler, Connie Britton & Taylor Kitsch: Friday Night Lights (again)

Are you watching Friday Night Lights yet? I have forced 7 friends to start watching Friday Night Lights - all but one are in love and in obsessive watching mode. They are also making sure to make their viewing count, which is critical to the longevity of the brilliant and amazing Friday Night Lights. You too must do the same, please.

Dear Coach Eric Taylor -

Hi. How are you?
I like you very much.
Who is this doppelganger pretending to be you, neither from Texas nor in angry man shorts, angry sunglasses nor angry headset?
What the hokey pokey hell, Coach?
My state of reality is highly fragile and I become discombobulated much faster than most.
I am deeply troubled and I need you, Coach Eric Taylor, to point your right finger at me, whilst your left hand sits atop the angry belt of your angry man shorts and you state "nominate a teacher now, son. It's what men do. It's the right thing to do, son." (For the record, Coach Eric Taylor: I don't have a peen, and so am a girl, but will allow you to call me son.)
Can you please record a new public service announcement for me?

Further, I would greatly appreciate if you were to wear your green t-shirt a little more often, thank you.

You are my angry hero in green, Coach Eric Taylor, and I am sincerely yours,
Maha

Dear Connie Britton / Tammy Taylor -

Hi. How are you?
I like you as much as I like your angry and oftentimes confused husband, Coach Eric Taylor. Please understand I would never make a pass at your husband, no matter how angry and hot he is in his angry man shorts and angry headset. I wouldn't do that to the sisterhood, Principal Taylor. (Principal Taylor? I might be a liar.)

I am writing this to you because I was wondering: Would you like to have a drink with me sometime?
In the future, I will probably have some boy problems that I will need to discuss with you because you are very clearly the world's greatest listener of all time and I really like the way you communicate with your angry husband, Coach. I also wonder, do you ever call him 'Coach' when you are having adult private time?
That just made me giggle. I hope you giggled too.

By the way, my best friend and I are going to a combo of Morocco, Turkey and / or Cairo this coming Christmas and we were wondering if you'd like to join us?

I've used three variations of the word 'wonder' in my letter to you. It's because I like that word and you make me shy and nervous with your fantastic breasts and large pretty brown eyes.
I wonder if I am now starting to creep you out?
Please don't be scared of me if I show up at your backyard and try to fix your broken air conditioning unit. It's because I like you very much.
(Also, I agreed with you about your dream home. I think you wanted to cry when Coach said no - I wanted to cry for you. I wonder, did you want to cry but the writers didn't let you?)

I would like some pointers on how to do the same as you in the boobs department, please. (See what I just did there, Tammy? "Pointers", like boobs? That made me giggle, too. I wonder if I can call you "Tammy"?).

I am yours in sisterly solidarity,
Maha

Dear Tim Rigging / Taylor Kitsch -

Hi. How are you?
I don't squeal easily over boys, but I am squealing like a little school girl over you, my Rigglett.
I become seriously frazzled every time that your 17-year-old self shows up on my screen.

I am writing to you because I would like you to please stop screaming on my screen. Unfortunately, every time you do scream, my Rigglett, I hurt my hand in my small effort to place a lozenge in your mouth. And honestly, a lozenge is all I would ever try to place in your mouth. (Tim Riggins? I might be a liar.)

I am also sending you this letter because I would like to know which name brand and colour of blush you use, please. If you can spare a further moment, I would also like to know what stain of lipstick you use. On. Your. Mouth.
Your. Mouth.
You have the greatest mouth in the history of mouths and if ever I meet you, my Rigglett, I will try to poke your mouth in an effort to see if it is, as it appears to be, very cushiony to the touch.

I'm pretty sure my vision just blurred a little, Rigglett.

I am yours with the sincerest of sentiments: I would very much like to touch your hair if only to shampoo it,
Maha
P.S. Do you like bubblegum? I do, very much. I thought you should know. Bazooka is my favourite. Bye.

The Jackson Family

I woke up to an avalanche of emails linking to MJ's kid's speech during his memorial. People are forwarding the clip because they think it is beautiful and moving and endearing.

I watched in horror as these court jester wh*res displayed their grotesque need for attention, pushing that little child into the spotlight; amazed at how they were so willing to place this kid into the very environment which fucked up Michael Jackson himself. Also, how immediately they went against the very grain of MJ's fierce protection of the children's identities.

And to the emails that ask me what I think of Michael Jackson himself; my opinion is simple and it is that he will remain a brilliant musical genius the likes of which we may never see again. May he, like all of us, rest in peace.

Comments closed. If you're about to email me telling me you think I'm a cold-hearted bitch. Save it.

Friday Night Lights

I don't have cable and tend to only watch television shows the DVDs of which my friends pass along. Since perhaps 4 years ago, I have not found anything worthwhile, preferring instead to geek it out inside of novels. For this reason, I rarely come across a television show which devastates me. Friday Night Lights is, undoubtedly, the most devastating of shows I have been an audience to in 30 years. (I love you, L for most recently handing me the DVDs; I have purchased seasons 1 & 2 so as to ensure that my support for the show is in fact counted.)

The family values, relationship and community values which this show speaks to are heartbreaking and hilarious and exactly where I wish to be.

Let me immediately get out of the way that: this is the best written, best directed and best acted show I have ever watched. In all technical incarnations, it is simply brilliant, filled with characters, each of whom is beautifully flawed and therefor more real than any famewh*re found in reality television; Friday Night Lights is a welcome slice of home-made pound cake. (As equally important is that there are no god-awful metrosexuals on this show; it is unapologetically a show where men are men and women are women, without falling into the stereotypical gender boundaries other television shows inevitably flop and default to because their writing team is a composite of idiots.)

Also, I am usually a crying mess at least once during every episode...

The characters
This is a show of man meat.
I should write Man Meat, more than man meat; everywhere there is Man Meat, and as follows.

Granmaw Saracen, who reminds me of my mama looks-wise and who I wish to hug every time she comes on to the screen. I love her so and hope the writers never take her off the show. Ever. And if they must, then that they would please write a new show called "Tiara, Pie & Eye Wear Shopping With Granmaw Saracen". She breaks my heart every time and I love her as much as I love her fictional grandson...
Mattew Saracen, the sweetest kid in the world and what every girl should want for her daughter's first boyfriend; note, for our daughters not us, because we tend to be foolish and reckless and are instead drawn to the likes of...
Tim Riggins, not nearly as pretty as I am. Troubled boy with a retarded body; the stripper with a heart of gold, only he's not a stripper ('why not' is what I'd like to know, Writers?!). Perfect to look at, but not built for long-term situations; just let your imaginations run rip shod over the topography of that boy's body and stop right there. Thirty-three also has a sort of mini-me, his brother...
Billy Riggins, who could always use more chap-stick and who is all kinds of redneck funny and probably a lady killer, much like Tim, when he had more hair. (Writers! Please tell us more about Tim and Billy and their drunk dad.)

There's also THE SMASH, who has the world's greatest smile and who is cocksure and arrogant and sexy and still scared of...
THE SMASH MOMMA, quite possibly the prettiest prettiest prettiest lady I have ever seen and on whose very large breasts I would like to be comforted and maybe take a nap, please. (Don't judge me until you've seen how comfortable everyone looks when she hugs them.)
A special shout out here to Nonni, THE SMASH SISTER, and an exquisite little actress.

Landry, hilarious geek who is the long-lost-cousin of Matt Damon, hopelessly in love with...
Tyra, whose character development has been fascinating, though predictable. I guess the alternative would have been the crackwhore in Fame, and I'm happier with this sort of a Tyra, who far outdoes...
Layla who, though am sure she is a really lovely girl in real life, I wish would just Stop. Nose-Whisper-Talking, please. But while you're still there, why don't you - on behalf of the sisterhood, that is - cup Riggins' bum more often? And undo his shirt? And tousle his hair? And kiss his eyelids? And lick his neck?
Wait. What?
Oh...right. So, anyway, Layla is the daughter of...
Buddy who I hated during season one and then sort of felt sorry for and started to love in season two. He is a sloppy sort of character who clearly eats much too much steak and chicken-fried-chicken and chicken-fried-steak, but who you cheer for in the darker recesses of your mind. (GO! BUDDY! GO!)

Jason Street, maybe the first major character in a show who happens to be a quadriplegic. Good for you FNL! Bravo indeed. Jason is an amazing character, so innocent and sweet and honest and loyal and all kinds of good even though he looks like Ray Liotta who is capable of much evil in character. Even when six is angry, he is adorable.
His other quad friend, who is mean, but only because he really loves Jason (this sentence makes me sound as a 7 year old). I have forgotten his character's name; no matter, he is brilliant like the rest.

Julie Taylor, the perfect moon-faced teenager, angry, frustrated, irritated, bratty, in love with Mattew Saracen and daughter of...
Tammy Taylor, she of the greatest breasts on telly. Among the strongest female characters to ever hit the screen, with the perfect lines, always the perfect lines (e.g. "I gotta pump and dump, baby. I love you. Don't touch me."). (I would really like the Writers to have a phone line, where I could call in my problems, placed on pause, until they prattle off my next verbal strike.) The character is the perfect mix and balance of femininity, strength, devotion and loyalty without loss of self. The actress who plays Tammy is gorgeous - simply gorgeous and the chemistry between Tammy and her husband is palpable.

Who, then, is her husband?

The one man with whom I have fallen in love: Coach Eric Taylor. A man of very few but always intelligent words. (Dear Writer: Marry me?) I understand that I should be ogling the younger Man Meat, but I am much more turned on by this more mature male, it would seem (suspect it's Riggins that the Writers wish for us to be eyesexing, but his boyishness can't hold its own against the complete manliness of Coach).

Coach Taylor, with his angry hair and eyebrows, biting-of-his-inner-bottom-lip, and adorable man shorts makes me weak at the knees. Especially when he doesn't know what to say, or is so frustrated all he can do is a sexy nose twitch in his terribly ugly sports sunglasses (which, by the way, ought to be outlawed and men only allowed to wear aviators).

This fictional character is, in my head and imagination, how a real man behaves. A man who fiercely loves and is devoted to his family and his team and his community; a man who really truly understands morality and does his absolute utmost to always maintain the fabric of that morality even while he knows he may be failing because he is, at the end of the day, only human.

(Is it a surprise that he is fictional? Honest question, this...)

My favourite lines uttered by Coach Taylor (thank you Writers!): "Women are to be respected."
&
"You're wrong. You are dead wrong."
I. Love. Coach.

My favourite scene, driving home the strength of this fictional character: When Tammy tells him she slapped Julie (who, let's face it, deserved a solid beat down in that moment, if for no other reason than for dating what appeared to be an Elvin man-child.).

Why aren't you watching this show yet?
Please watch this show; it shall make your life a better place. Promise. (Don't thieve download it, though; make sure you are making your viewing count, or it shall vanish to The Cemetery of Excellent Writing, Acting & Directing All But For A Crap Audience.)

He is dead

Upwards of 160,000 people die annually.
War
Famine
Poverty
Disease
Global Warming
...and people can barely get off their lazy asses to demonstrate or make a phone call to a politician or write an email or pick up a newspaper to be informed...
...and yet...and yet...and yet...they line the fucking streets for him within an instant.

Get. Some. God. Damn. Perspective.

Toddlers & Tiaras

This spotlights one of the reasons why I think our world is going to sh*t. (P.S. While you're sl*tting up your babies, your government is r*ping you and other countries.)

Exactly three years ago this day

I blogged the following:

.1. Have just come back from seeing Batman Begins with Di and her Peej. Before the film began, we were discussing the dynamics between men and women, and the rules of flirtation. Somewhat thrown by the different perspectives (e.g. what a woman defines as a signal vs a man’s idea of a signal), I turned to Peej and asked “Why are you men so dense?” to which his ricochet was “Men are dense because women think they’re being obvious.”

What a great response! Missed opportunities?
I laughed …right before I scribbled down his words.

.2. Re Batman, film was good and story well spun. Christian Bale is one of the finest actors of this generation, and I apologize ahead of time as in the coming paragraph will objectify him.

I rarely find men in full suits appealing, preferring them in either: (a) Matching jacket / pants, unbuttoned tapered (not over-sized and sloppy) shirt; or, (b) Perfect is a man with scruffy beard and messy hair (but clean) in either cargo pants or jeans. I lean toward the rugged rather than slick, but as I watched the movie, found myself thinking: Christian Bale gives good suit.

No one can wear a suit like him, and I think seeing him will forever be a throw back to American Psycho.

Mind you, he didn't look so bad wearing only bruises and sunshine...

And I am today writing to reiterate my love of Christian Bale in a suit.
Because no one. And I mean: NOT ONE MAN can wear a suit like Christian Bale. The man gives good suit. In fact, he gives best suit.

So much so that I'm nearly jumping out of my skin at the prospect of him repeatedly giving this best of suit in three days' time. I have seen the previews for The Dark Knight and I have been witness to the perfection that is Bale in more suits and. Honestly? My teeth rattle.

Meep.

Best. Outfit. Ever?
Black pin-striped dress pants and matching blazer. Simple white button down undone at the neck.

Jeesus, I'm deprived.
I can't wait to see Bale!

But frankly, why do I love him so much?
Because I love the way he loves his wife. I love the way he adores his wife - because you can tell that he doesn't just love her (yes: I used the words 'just love her'), he actually likes her. And that, my friends, is what makes all of the difference in the long run. (Anyone disagree?)

LOVE HIM.

Maz Jobrani, Ahmed Ahmed & Dean Obeidallah

Three names from The Axis of Evil comics (missing was Aron Kader who I think is a bona fide Fox); three men that mama and I watched last night from the front row.

Ahmed Ahmed was our M.C. for the evening while Dean Obeidallah (1/2 Palestinian, 1/2 Sicilian. Adorable. Hilarious. Ethnically confused...in a very good way.) and Maz (1 Iranian. Hysterical. Flexible, too.) were the headliners.

They had three opening acts, one of whom nearly made me fall out of my chair; some Lebanese kid who, I swear, was either high on speed or had spent the duration of his day drinking Red Bull and coffee. I didn't know whether to hose him down or just sit back, laugh, and thank God I wasn't in a small confined space with his ass. (In case you're wondering, I chose the former.)

Ahmed Ahmed has a dry sense of humour, the kind that catches you off guard and makes you wonder what he mumbles about you as soon as you're out of ear shot. Kind of hot, too. Unfortunately, he dates retards. Or so he comedic-s.

Dean Obeidallah is the kind of boy you want to bring home to mom. He has a natural ability to charm everyone, and is super clever, it seems. Softer sense of humour until he starts talking about and imitating W. He also carries around a little notepad in which he writes things. Gold Star for The Nerd; it takes one to love one. (I'm pretty sure mama wanted me to slip this guy my number. She's such a pimp.)

Maz Jobrani? Oh my God. This guy is a piece of comedic genius, with a side dish of the world's greatest giggle. I lost my shit when he started talking about how he married a "defective Indian" because his wife doesn't know a thing about technology. Lost. My. Shit.

If they're coming at you, make sure to run towards them and catch their show. You won't regret it and you may learn a thing or two. Trust in that.

(Russell Peters, too, because how can't you love a man whose designed a crest for his name? I saw him Saturday night and was laughing so hard I'm pretty sure I drooled. That's the way I roll towards The Hot, kittys.)

Shifted Perspective (& the Border Fox)

I've never understood the concept of a fan event. In fact, I would have to say that until Saturday evening, I have - on occasion - been a little cruel about them.

In early February, T invited Mo & I to visit her family. Having heard so much about her two baby girls and The Husband, James, I couldn't pass on the opportunity. Adding more seduction power was that Mo would be there as well. Around a month ago, T asked if I would be interested in attending a dinner comprising a few hours out of a multi-day fan event. My initial reaction was 'no' until she confirmed that it would be an 'in and out' sort of deal. Mo promised to serve as a buffer and if necessary, I would have T's husband to whom I could escape. Albeit a little nervous, I agreed. The bottom line was I was scared-ed of what I might see.

And so we went to dinner. I still don't understand it and I would still not attend (to each his own) if not for the necessary involvement of my dear and wonderful T. But, now that I've been witness to one such event, a few things have shifted in my perception...

I respect the women involved in the impeccable organization of the event. It took them EIGHTEEN MONTHS to prepare. EIGHTEEN MONTHS without the hint or illusion that the actor in Q would ever drop by. EIGHTEEN MONTHS, the result of which was an exquisitely organized and seamless evening where the over 250 individuals in attendance had the pleasure of escaping reality and stepping into the fantasy shared with friends who totally 'got' it.

I saw women cry and squeal with joy because they were finally meeting one another after a long virtual friendship. I saw as others spilled over with joy and gratitude because the actor had graciously personalised notes to the women for their hard work. Most importantly, I watched how value and purpose was received from this event...and, quite honestly, I was moved. Even as I type, I am moved by their experiences and a little ashamed at my previous cruelty.

So. This is just a very short note to say that between the beautiful baby S's ballet class and occupation of my lap for the purpose of a nap, Eddie Izzard at 2am, James' exemplary cooking, talking 'shop' (politics & religion) until 3am, Enchanted, L's beautiful built-for-a-girl room and ability to give the world's greatest and warmest hugs, Mo's warmth, humour and secret-keeping and T's generosity of heart, spirit and crafty ability...I attended a few hours of a fan event and even though I did indeed escape rather early so as to hang out with James while Mo & T2 got busy on the dance floor and T took care of more business I was warmed by the experience of watching the palpable pleasure of those in attendance.

Apart from creating bonds and friendships that span continents, they have found purpose and value in entertainment; this later serving as the most important of all, most especially in a time when so much of entertainment and most all of entertainers have actively engaged in cheapening themselves.

From the small rumours I've heard, they're expecting to crack an unbelievable amount of money, each dime of which will be going to a charity supported by the actor himself. I will provide you with the exact figure once it's released. If for no other reason, any effort that raises any money for any charity must be admired. And neither that it is needed nor does it matter to them, but for that, the women have earned my admiration, and so Bravo to them and their amazing work.

Gorgeous Mo, who when she visited me over a year and a half back left a little note for me on my dresser - a note I carry around with me everywhere I go because I love it so much:


& even though I will not blog the photo of T for personal reasons, I will add this photo as I have tucked her safely and securely beneath the mauve dot (& if anyone tries to touch her, I'll break their envious and pathetic little fingers):


One small special mention very worthy of your attention: On the raffle block, there were thirty beautiful and overflowing massive theme baskets, each one of which was stained individually by one of the fathers of the women who organized the event. He is wheelchair bound and requires an oxygen tank. And yet, he stained thirty wooden baskets for this event. I wanted to walk over and give him a hug, but felt a fool for even thinking it. So, choosing to be creepy instead, I merely stared at him in wonder when he wasn't looking. (And just to confirm that I am in fact a Super Creep I also took a photo of him because I think he deserves to be acknowledged when the actor in whose name this was done is told about the event with a special mention made re the man who stained the baskets.)

******************************

Two unrelated further asides.

First. I tried to take a photo of Mo while she was dancing. I don't know how to work technology very well, most definitely not something like a BlackBerry. But I tried anyway and couldn't figure out how to turn on her camera though I did somehow turn on her video camera instead. And so, I managed to take a video of her, only she's not in the picture because I'm that stellar. In place of that, you hear me jabbering on about why I can not take a photo, then turning to T who 'threatened met me' with her own BlackBerry and finally declaring "I wanted to take a picture of Mo & T2 but I don't know how and now I'm taking a video ha ha ha ha ha HA HA HA HA HA HA" or something like that with a lot of laughter. Mo has threatened to post said video - will let you know if she does indeed.

Second. If you are interested in meeting hot men, I strongly recommend you hit up the Customs Area at the Ottawa International Airport. I was standing waiting to be questioned as to my trip and couldn't decide to which 'window' I was hoping to be called. (When did the border guards become the Border Foxes? And with such excellent hair, too?) Lucky I was called up to the Hottest of The Border Fox crew who asked me where I went and then why I went there and finally if I'd done any shopping because I declared '0' on my customs form. Because I didn't buy anything. Because T has babies and babies are made for attention taking and not shopping. So. Border Fox leaned over and looked deeply into my eyes with his beautiful blue eyes. To this I leaned in and stared right back at him and his lovely eyes expectantly as he asked "You went to visit for a girls' weekend? And you didn't buy anything? Even though Mo came up from Los Angeles? And Trish from Florida?" (Yeah, seriously, I gave names...) He thought I was lying and the Border Foxes are trained to sniff out a liar and so I started thinking Oh my God, thank God I'm not a liar or else Border Fox would read it on my face as he is trained to do with those foxy blue eyes. Like, if I'm lying, I would respond and look to the left or maybe to the right or maybe at my shoes and then he'd know I had been shopping and was lying on my customs declaration. How clever of the Border Fox with the fantastic blue peepers. Lucky me I am not a liar. Though I do wish we had shopped. I like your hair. And your pretty blue eyes. I also like anything that sparkles if you spin it. Vanilla cake, too... This internal monologue while I was staring and smiling at him. And so I forgot to answer his Q. Really fancy of me, yes? I guess Border Fox could tell I was not fibbing, because he let me walk though I wouldn't have minded much if he'd decided I was a liar and held on to me for further questioning. (Really, seriously, next time you fly into Ottawa International Airport, pay close attention to the new breed of The Border Foxes and get back to me.)

'Caramel'

Except for the occasional political one, I rarely recommend films on this blog. But if you are free tonight, this Thursday evening, tomorrow or Saturday and live in Ottawa, then please find the hour and a half needed to head over to the Bytowne Cinema where you can catch Caramel. (Tonight it's on at 5pm, Friday at 4.30pm & Saturday at 2.15pm.)

Later, I will insert here why I loved this movie as much as I did...check back.

Secretly wishing someone would "mist" Dr. Phil

.1. My body is still hibernating. It sees a potato and angels start singing.

.2. A "Bacetto" chocolate is not a Baci chocolate. They are both made by Perugina and they are both packaged in exactly the same way. They are also both hazelnut focussed.

Only: The Bacetto does not have a poorly translated and usually hilarious "fortune" within, leaving the chocolate eater to wonder if they accidentally chewed up and swallowed the paper fortune.

Don't be fooled and don't settle for anything short of a Baci.

.3. Someone gifted me "an aromatic spa refreshing facial mist [that is] ideal for toning the skin and awakening the senses!" (exclamation mark theirs not mine). It comes in a small spray bottle which one is meant to point at thine face and spray.

I did this and found it neither 'refreshing' nor 'misty', but rather aggressive and hostile.

I tried it several times, hoping I would soften and get used to the on-slough of spray. Only, the more I sprayed, the greater my recoil and shock at the force of the "mist", and the greater reason my skin will have to wrinkle as I scrunch it up in anticipation of the "pure essential oils of ORANGE & GRAPEFRUIT & natural GREEN TEA" (yelling theirs not mine). I was holding it up to my face this morning and I couldn't actually bring myself to mist; same paralysis I would encounter if I tried to bite myself (near impossible to draw blood unless you have psychological issues that would permit you to set aside your body's natural biological reaction to fight and ward off the potential hurt bla bla).

It may have to do with the fact that I sprayed a direct line into my left eye and nearly drowned myself in it because I forgot to close my eyes and my mouth and plug my nose.


.4. If you know an under-ten, please take them to see Dr. Seuss' Horton Hears A Who. It's one of the books I always gift under-tens and it's a message most adults could use to learn.

.5. I used to think Dr. Phil was good, until I watched a complete show around a month back and it hit me like a ton of bricks that: He's all about "owning your sh*t" and that this is a novelty in this day and age is the reason people like him so much.

So...essentially, the reason he's so popular is because we've turned into a society that does nothing more than enable crap behaviour, and when a normal thought pattern comes on to centre stage (such as: Own. Your. Sh*t.), we think it's some kind of miracle.

So. I'm officially removing my support for Dr. Phil because I think it's lame that we've propelled to stardom a dude who is selling what should be so obvious to anyone who thinks they are a functioning part of and contributor to a healthy society.

OWN IT, ALREADY. YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS BY NOW. IT SHOULD NOT BE YOUR END POINT, BUT YOUR FRIKING BASE-LINE. (And if you, for one second, believe that anything worth having can be found in a 42 minute show and without hard work and life-long commitment, then you're a bigger loser than...the biggest loser in the world.)

(It's like The Secret. It was NEVER a "secret". I'm rolling my eyes so hard that they look as though they belong in the head of the person sitting next to me and they've accidentally landed in my sockets and are trying to find their way out. Roll. Roll. Roll. Never. A. "Secret"!)

.6. In case you have yet to notice: I am intolerant today.

I've always been an Angelina girl

Apart from the fact that she's adopted half of the world and has decided to give birth to the other half, it is precisely because she does this, and has done it for long enough to eschew the possibility of idiots calling it an actor's 'grab' for attention, that I respect her.

Most definitely more than the idiot celebrities (and we know who they are) who would support the likes of Huckabee ("If They Ain't Christian, If They Ain't White, If They Ain't Hete-row, Then They Ain't Right") and McCain [the bona fide moron who made a joke of bombing an ENTIRE NATION, (but then again: them's Moslems don't really count, y'all)]. Most definitely more respect for Angelina than for the idiot Katherine Heigl who proudly proclaimed "I don't do politics, I get annoyed" (Thanks for that enlightened comment, Brainiac. You know what annoys me? Your gigantic teeth. How words can actually tumble through them is beyond me...but, uhm, thanks very much.)

Javier Bardem smoulders between randoms

.1. The entry right before this (On Forgiveness & Apology) was updated on Saturday. If you read it before then, I recommend you read it again. (Thank you for all of your feedback; it's definitely a familiar and popular subject matter, which says more than I'd like to know about how poorly we treat one another.)

.2. Really? WOW. WOW! Javier Bardem is "smouldering". Every time I look at this picture, I can hear my ovaries giggling and fluttering their eyelashes.

LOOK!



If I walked past him and he looked at me that way, I would become immobilized. I'd turn into a ramrod and maybe start crying because he's just so "virile". Masculine. Do you think he hunts? I think he hunts. Maybe I'll start gathering stuff just to prepare myself...

I sound like a cheap romance novel, thanks to Javier Bardem. I can't stop staring at this photo.
Javier. Haw-Vee-Yay. I love it.

But seriously, wtf was he looking at that made him smoulder on that level? Seriously?

He makes my teeth rattle.
WOW.

**Photo is courtesy of Lainey, who is a rocking super star and a funny woman even in regular email interaction. I was under the false impression that I'd met her at TIFF when it was, in fact, her co-host on that Canadian celebrity news show. That wasn't Lainey. So anything I said about the 'woman' does not pertain to Lainey. Lainey is as-hilarious-in-email-as-she-is-hilarious-on-her-site.

.3. I took the plunge and purchased a Canada Goose jacket, in "Steel". I wanted to purchase their Resolute Parka in red because it has "Secured plastic ID pockets on chest and sleeve", which would have been perfect for me. I would have walked around with MAHA emblazoned above my heart, and protected behind plastic.

When I shared this idea with the sales lady, she didn't address my interest but instead said: "These jackets are for expeditions up North. For serious expeditions up North" because clearly, I'm not a serious expeditioner. So I took my un-serious self out of her shop and instead spent my a-little-more-serious money in another store. Ha Ha.

(On a not so funny note, she asked me what country I was from and made an openly snide remark about how 'immigrants wear anything when they come to this country'. After I made my purchase at another store, I went back to the store in question and showed the manager my receipt and indicated why I had made the purchase elsewhere...you know, in my best broken immigrant English and a little sign language to really communicate my immigrant feelings.)

.4. The yoga studio who aids and abets The Man Who Wears A SPEEDO To Class still hasn't responded to my email re a potential "at minimum shorts" policy. I haven't seen him at my last two classes, so here's hoping he slipped on the ice and was traumatised by his own hammock.

Is this real?

Uh. My friend sent this to me with the caption 'OH MY GOD'.



Does anyone know if this is real? Because if it is, and if they're still rocking and rolling, I want to join and spin with the boy who seems to dance to the beat of his own drummer...and fiddle...and harmonica...and maybe even the ping of his own triangle...

Dispatch no 1, Toronto: Dork, extraordinaire

Seated across from me on the airplane, I knew I recognised him but I couldn't quite place from which television show. Because...it's difficult to name That Canadian Actor under the best of circumstance - seated behind and at an angle made it slightly more difficult.

While waiting for our luggage, this gentleman and I chatted and I instinctively KNEW. I knew how I knew him, and I was so excited! For a brief moment, I hesitated to ask but then gave in because I thought he would feel really good if a girl in my age category told him she remembered him and loved him on L.A. Law. I didn't mind that he wasn't a fellow Canadian; a girl's allowed to make mistakes.

Discreetly, I leaned over and enquired: “Are you the gentleman from LA Law?”

Richard Dysart:



To which he graciously and as equally discreetly responded with: “No, I used to be the leader of the opposition…”

Bill Graham:



My middle name is: Smooth.

Thank you.

(P.S. I also saw Roméo Dallaire, who I recognized without problem. I didn’t approach him because it’s Roméo and when one sees the General, one should just ogle in great wonder and awe.

THEN I saw The Naked Chef, Jamie Oliver, only he was fully clothed. Lovely man, of whom I took a few photos that you can find at this link. The photos make it look as though I was hiding in a bush, which maybe I was...)

ROCKY I, II & III

For the record: The best scenes in the first three Rocky films are the ones between Mickey & Rocky. Especially in Rocky I. They are poignant and speak to the relationships between men, between father and son, between friends.

One of the best scene stills to ever make cinematographic history is the final still in Rocky III when the camera freezes Apollo and Rocky lunging for one another. This may be a cliche, but that still is pure beauty in motion.

I know that Rocky speaks more to my generation than others; it also speaks more to men than women, but to those females who have yet to see this movie, or who have seen and chosen to ignore it...watch it once more because Rocky I may be one of the greatest love stories ever written.

And Balboa may just be as much your kind of man as he is mine. Equal parts fighter and protector, heart, devotion, loyalty, tenderness and humility.

300 Spartans on the weekend of resurrection

.1. Would someone please tell me what, exactly, is a ‘shrub’? An important person (I.P.) has just purchased a ‘shrub’, explaining how excited they were to have purchased one for their home.

I feigned equal excitement while not having a clue what a ‘shrub’ is. Is it a bush of sorts? Is it colourful? Does it lay eggs or make cheese?

A gold star for anyone who tells me what a ‘shrub’ is, please.

.2. Remember the Charmin Extra Strength Resistant toilette paper for your Super Duper Durable A**?

I TRIED IT!

I LOVED IT!

I RECOMMEND IT!

I’ve now turned into the Charmin Bear. I even come with my own forest and newspaper.

.3. This afternoon I finally saw Gerard Butler and Boy George Rodrigo Santoro in the film ‘300’.

It is a beautiful ballet of the macabre.
I loved every moment of this film and strongly encourage you to watch it if you’ve not done so already.

Here are my unfortunate comments:
- Instead of ‘Dilios’, I kept hearing ‘Diddle your a**’.

- Whenever Rodrigo Santoro came on screen, I would sing: “Kama Kama Kama Kama Kama Cameleooooon, You come and go, You come and go-oh-oh-oh”.

- I am happy that the Montreal porn industry was well represented in Xerxes’ tent.

- Whenever The Bad Guy would appear on screen, I would sing: “Hey! Hey! We’re the monkeys. We really like to monkey around”.

- I never knew the world had so many n*pples. And having written that, I can't help but wonder how it is that famine still exists.

- There was a scene where King Leonidas was eating an apple and the guy who was all “It was an honour to fight by your side and now I am going to die, elegantly” came running forward jumping all over the dead bodies.

He ran like a Faery King.

Why, Zack?

Didn’t either of you hear The King when he said – quite clearly, I might add – ‘THIS IS SPARTA’?

His running made me laugh a lot. And when this film is out on DVD, I plan on forwarding right to that part and watching it over and over and over and over in fast motion.

- I quite nearly yelled at the screen when The Queen had sex with The Monkey. She would totally not do that. TOTALLY. I don’t know who wrote that part, but they should fire them from Hollywood. There is NO WAY The Queen would have been stupid enough to think that The Monkey would have stayed true to his word. NOT TO MENTION THE FACT that she was sleeping with King Leonidas and so. Would just. Never. A Monkey.

.4. My dear sweet girlfriend Rannoon was in Ottawa (visiting from Montreal) this weekend and we spent the better part of yesterday together doing nothing but getting caught up, discussing politics, religion, men, boys, mamas and family.

She’s my sister and I love her giggle and curly eyelashes; sitting across from her I realized how blessed I’ve always been to have such amazing women in my life.

There are precious moment in our lives when we see our reflections mirrored in the hearts of our friends. Yesterday, I had a full day of that and today I feel as though I’m still riding that wave.

.5. My girlfriend S recently mentioned the need for an ethics hotline. I agree. When you are faced with an ethical dilemma, you can call the Hotline and ask their guidance.

Take for example the following scenario: You are in a store about to purchase a pop. Accidentally, you drop the pop on the floor. Do you then:
(a) Kick the pop aside without looking at it and grab another;
(b) Purchase the same pop and wait before opening it;
(c) Stare at the person next to you while loudly declaring ‘You dropped your pop’;
(d) Hand the pop to the store’s owner, explaining the accident and demanding a reward;
or
(e) Return the pop to the back of the refrigerator and take another?

…if we had an Ethics Hotline, we could call them and ask them what to do…
(If you chose ‘D’, then you chose correctly. Bravo, friend. Bravo.)

.6. The other day a Parisienne woman told me I spoke French ‘elegantly’. I kissed myself for receiving such a lovely compliment. And by ‘kissed myself’, I mean I brought the tips of my five right-hand fingers together and bounced them off my mouth four times.

.7. While shopping recently with T, we were standing behind a woman who was told the following: “We can’t accept your credit card because the amount you're buying’s too high. We think there’s fraud going on, pretty much. Don’t go anywhere.”

While walking past her, T had to pull me away quickly because I wanted to say: “Good luck with that fraud thing”.

I still don't understand why T wasn't willing to let me be sisterly and supportive. Likely because she was jealous I came up with the idea before she did.

.8. I changed the tag line on my Blog – scroll up and take a peek. It was inspired by I.P.

Jake Gyllenhaal

The comments of the last blog entry got me to thinking that a fine lookin' man with a fine brain, exceptional political beliefs and priorities in order deserves an entry all to his lonesome. This is the sexiest ad which made me take notice of Jake Gyllenhaal...believe it or not, for the political message and his arms alone.

Random Celebrity Notes

.1. In 2002 Justin Timberlake released Cry Me A River which, if you lived in North America and not beneath a rock, you knew was about Britney Spears’ extra-curricular affairs. He felt it appropriate to humiliate her publicly with his a**hole video because I’m sure he never dropped his d*ck into another woman the entire time he was with Britney. WHO ARE YOU KIDDING, JUSTIN? (See footnotes 1 & 2, please.)

In his latest ugh release, Justin Timberlake sings
“…don’t want to think about it…
…don’t want to talk about it…
… I’m just so sick about it…
about – can ‘ya take a guess?
Right: a woman who was unfaithful.

FIVE YEARS, Justin. You’ve been milking it for FIVE GOD DAMN YEARS…and so my advice to you is that since you “don’t want to think about it” or “talk about it” because you’re “sick about it”, then you might want to consider shutting the f*ck up about it. I’m sure that if you really tried, you could plug other two-syllable lyrics into your musical score.

Justin. Being in the Mickey Mouse Club together does not = having children together. And because Britney's indiscretions weren't SO severe, then understand that sh*t happens and people cheat. Get over yourself, kid. (See footnote no 3, folks.)

Footnote no. 1: Didn't Justin used to wear a "WWJD" bracelet? Maybe that was The Backstreet Boys? Whatever. I'm pretty sure Jesus (pbuh) wouldn't have made that video, Justin.

Footnote no. 2: In Islam there's this belief that if you forgive another's indiscretions, then Allah will forgive you yours because ultimately we all muck it up somehow. But because you, Justin, could not do this, I look forward to the day someone makes a video about your muck ups.

Footnote no. 3: I don't mean to belittle the subject matter of unfaithfulness, but I make a huge distinction between being cheated on when you're someone's girlfriend/boyfriend or when you're someone's life partner and someone with whom you've procreated.

.2. No. I’m not a Britney Spears fan, I just think that celebrity is the worst possible mind-f*ck that could happen to young adults, most especially if their parents are willingly prostituting their children out for a quick and easy dollar (like so many we have seen in our generation).

With the kind of “parents” Britney Spears has, I’m surprised the kid wasn’t injecting heroin directly into her neck.

Think I’m passing judgment on her parents?
I am. And if you're not, then I pity your children.

You don’t raise your children to aspire to celebrity and money. Period & end of discussion, friends.

What an individual chooses to do later in life, AFTER BECOMING AN ADULT, is of their own making.

And Britney, GI JANE IS SO 90s.

.3. Give me a moment to catch my breath and slip off this soap box.

.4. You know who I think are excellent role models in terms of young Hollywood talent (& who have a what-would-appear-to-be a solid familial base)?

Maggie & Jake Gyllenhaal.

Check out where his priorities are:
"Look, the most important job for a man is to find the right woman. It's the best we can do. I thank my father for choosing my mother. She's wonderful in so many ways. And she chose well too. I've noticed in life that the mother, first, has a primary job and as a father our job is to pick a caring, smart, mindful woman." (GQ)

I think I want to take care of him. And love him. And pet him. And water him.

Bring it, Charles

This evening, I came home to Charles.

We live in La Bohème and do nothing but sit in cafés and visit with our voisins. Et ça veut dire que nous sommes jolie and we have les nuit blanche filled with crème or at least that’s what I think our nights are filled with because I sometimes have a hard time understanding him especially when he uses the word “kaka” which I’m told is not actually a word. In any language. Let alone la langue de l’Amour. L’Amour in French has a capital ‘A’ and Charles has a way of talking about bread and making it sound zegzy. Much like “kaka”.

He sings to me all the time and sometimes, he stops singing and starts talking all zegzy like and he talks of things I don’t understand because he’s in French, remember? What are you stupid that you don’t remember I just mentioned that, like, three sentences back?

Anyway. Where was I? I don’t understand all of Charles, but then I hear the French words “amooo” and “rrrrrrr” and “ooooooo” and I melt.

And when he really wants to slow things down, he starts singing to me in ‘English’ but it’s really his impression of a four year old boy because I’m pretty sure that’s how old he was when he wrote these lyrics:

You are the one
for me
for me
for me
forrrrrmidaaaaaaable

You are my love
very
very
very
verrritable

Et je voudrais pouvoir un jour enfin te le diiiiiiiiire
Te l’ecriiiiiire
Dans la laaaaaaaaangue de Shakespeare

My desire
desire
desire
desire
desiraaaaaaaaaable

…and I start singing back loudly and imagining I’m sporting white go-go boots and a mini skirt and I dance around with my hands in the air pretending I have some sense of rhythym as I bump into nos voisins and our furniture and knock over the crème that was supposed to fill our nuits blanche and Charles just watches and smiles at me and even laughs and makes funny noises like “heh” and “hmmmm” and “hum hum ha hum” which are French for “I’m hot!”

I often wonder for whom the Bitch tolls when he sings qu’il n’a rien oublié . This is Charles’s only secret.

That and how he’s managed to keep his eyebrows such a dark shade of black.

Download Charles Aznavour’s. Désormais, Les Plaisirs Demodés, For me…Formidable, La Bohème, & Non, Je N’ai Rien Oublié. ALLEZ, VITE!

The Feminist Movement & Eric Balfour's Hoo Hoo

I like Eric Balfour. There's a 'je ne sais quoi' about this guy that makes him look as though he belongs in Madonna's Vogue video. (It helps that he has some serious moves on a dance floor.)

All over NY were posters for the film 'Lie With Me'...I'd never heard of the film prior to, nor have I heard of it since.

Based on both the posters and this weird affinity I have for Balfour (and the like: Billy Zane), I picked up the movie. I love the fact that it was shot in Canada (yay Shopper's Drug Mart!) at large, Toronto specifically (yay Bloor!). What I couldn't decipher was that the packaging had NA BC on it.

While chatting with the staff, we finally determined that the NA BC meant the film was not available for distribution in British Columbia. I didn't understand why this was so until we watched this SOFT PORN FLICK. (Or is it 'soft core porn'? Am unfamiliar with the porn vernacular, sorry.)

We got so much more of Balfour than we had hoped or cared for. Although not an X-rated film, it had REAL oral sex in it. Through hysterical laughter, blushing, pausing, rewinding, standing closer to the television set and slo-mo'ing, we determined that it may have even been REAL sex.

Is Hollywood going in a new direction vis-a-vis sexual representation in 'non pornographic' films? Is this the next step in Hollywood? Because. I don't like it. And now I'll never look at Eric Balfour without seeing his hoo-hoo first. WHY ERIC? WHY?

Why isn't it our inclination to enjoy the mystery of sexuality? When out there for all to see (much like Eric's hoo-hoo), the magic's gone. The innuendo's gone. That innuendo, the subtlety of it can be intoxicating; like catching a man watching you in a room filled with people...a man who has enough courage to meet your eyes and hold them.

Were Eric Balfour to be the man in my innuendo game, he'd probably moon me.

And worse still was the female in this movie. She was supposed to be a strong sexual presence; dominant of, driven by and in control of her sex drive. She comes off as nothing short of a ditz, a flake, a slut in a freak show. To those who know me, they understand it would take a lot for me to use the 's' label. But in the way this film portrays this female, that's the only word to use. There's this weird thing about the feminist movement, this belief that if a woman can f&*k like a man, then she must be equal to him. This is a school of thought to which I will never subscribe. And I've always found it comical and most definitely an unsophisticated argument that so much stress has been placed on this portion of the feminist movement, a portion which essentially and most definitely works to favor men. Last I noticed there weren't many men complaining that they could get laid a lot easier in this day and age.

I have no problem with or argument against women having sex at any frequency and with as many men as they may choose. The bottom line is, if a woman wants to have sex with a different man every night for the rest of her life, that's completely her business (& for this, there is the feminist movement to thank). But whatever you do, don't possess enough stupidity to insult the likes of me by telling us that particular action makes us equal to men. Our equality comes from the quality of work that we do, the level of education that we have, and the influence in both politics and society that we may strive for, not from the number of men we have sex with.

Hawksley Workman

Last I saw Hawksley Workman perform was on a hot summer night two years back.

Earlier this evening, I watched him perform in The Bronson Centre (a high school auditorium which became home to myself and 799 others).

I would avoid discussing this if I could, but I can't: He opened the show with three slow songs (one he appropriately referenced as being "for the birds"), pulled out a bullhorn and even tapped on a xylophone. I almost bit clear through my fist trying not to laugh out loud.

I won’t even get into the visual trauma inflicted by the BANDANA HE WORE BENEATH HIS FEDORA. Scandalous this, Hawksley.

Fortunately, song no. 4 brought Hawksley back to his audience and allowed me to forgive both his choice of opening songs and BANDANA. He is, after all, part Vaudeville show and part Opera singer and so severely melodramatic.

Listening to him perform live is like being slowly covered by drips of something hot, heavy and filmy. You will never want to take a shower again. Sexy this, Hawksley.

In this order, download:
Tarantulove
Smoke Baby
Anger As Beauty
Striptease
Jealous of Your Cigarette
No Sissies
We Will Still Need A Song

Good night, kittens.

Tony Curran

Edit: I originally wrote and published this 'in the future' on December 26th, 2006. At that time, things will get hectic for me in terms of my personal life and I will need to take a couple of weeks to regain perspective. I opted to push this back a few months, because actors are the last thing of interest on this blog and don't want anyone to misunderstand what One Female Canuck is about should they come here during my brief sabbatical. Enjoy!

I have received some really lovely emails from fans of this man. Over a year ago, I posted about the Beowulf & Grendel premiere at TIFF and somewhere in there mentioned that I had fun meeting Tony Curran. At the time, I cropped myself out of the following photos and sent them - as recommended by gerardbutler(dot)net to the really nice folks at tonycurranonline(dot)com.

For the many of you who have asked: He is a generous man, a flirt, inquisitive and equally quiet. And yes, he has a supreme body (this, K discovered when she took a photo with him and touched his chest and declared “Oh my!” I won't post that photo unless I have her explicit permission to do so. I'll ask and get back to you sometime in the near future). I believe he’d just finished shooting Underworld Evolution (someone can confirm or correct this, please) and so was in top form. If I remember correctly, we discussed the film and I asked him about Speedy, who I have loved since Felicity.

Here are parts of our conversation, which I think many of you will find amusing:
“What’s your name?”
“Maha.”
“Maha? What nationality is that?”
“It’s an Arabic name.”
“Where are you from, Maha?”
“Palestine.”
“Palestine?”
“Yes.”
“Hello, Palestine.”
“Greetings, Scotland."


...

“This jacket of yours is nice, Scotland.”
“Thanks, Palestine.”
“Sure thing.”
“It’s Armani, touch it.”
“Oh my God, it’s so soft.”
“I know. It feels perfect on.”
“Fits brilliantly, I can see that.”


...

“Nice hat.”
“Thanks. Try it on.”
“Ok. I’m going to take a picture in it.”
“Ok.”
“Without you, Scotland. Just with the hat.”
“Ok.”
(Little did I know, at the time, the sort of attention this “cap” of his receives from his fans. If anyone would care to explain this to me, please feel free to do so...)

And here is the worst photo I have ever taken in my life (check out my awesome two chins):


There you have it, fans of Tony Curran, that’s all there is to say, other than, I hope you get to meet him and have as much fun as I did doing so...

Gerry Butler vs Bob

My friend Sim Sim has dropped in and asked me a question re the measure of female fantasy. That he would think I can provide an answer to female anything flatters me. And I don’t mean that in The Crying Game sense, but rather in the ‘no one should take anything I say seriously’ sense.

Anyway. In the comments section of Meet Tyler Durden, Sami asked: "I got a question for you, well maybe something for all women in general. I find, in my experience, that most women refer to fictional characters, movies and books, when describing their dream boys, why is that?

It is rarely that names out of reality are referred to when talking about their tall, dark and handsome. Is it the fantasy factor again? Or is it more the packages on TV and the movies are sexier than reality? "

Again, please understand that my response is solely my own > I would love it if you all weighed in and provided your own perspectives on this issue.

(1) Why do women refer to fictional characters when describing their dream boy?
(a) The short personal answer is: When talking to a general audience it's much easier to tap into the Tyler Durden than it is to one of the two men I know personally. If I were to have written about either of the two men I reference, the reality is that no one on this blog knows them. They may have a general idea of one of them...but not on a personal level. And so, I chose to instead discuss a character in popular culture and to whom others may recognise / understand / relate.

(b) The more deep-rooted answer is: The reason I’m using the Tyler Durden character to describe one facet of my ideal mate is because I’m still single. I am a foolishly hopeless romantic and have deluded myself into believing that once I am firmly entrenched in a relationship, I will look at my significant other and think him my ideal. Always. And forever.

At that point, my writing would be along the lines of “…and my gorgeous alpha male husband…” or “H.O.T. = my husband” or “…my husband can kick your husband’s ass. Nya! Nya!” You get the point…

The bottom line is I’ve still not found what I’m looking for (thanks Bono!). In my mind’s eye, I have the measure of the man I want to hand myself over to. Referencing a character from a book or a movie provides some sense of tangibility.

When married, I will still reference general characters when speaking to an audience of people who know nothing about my partner; but in my head and heart, he is it. If he’s not, then I’ll walk. Actually, I just won’t get involved to begin with…

Clear as mud? Now, let’s get to the heart of the question…

(2) ...is film / the fantasy sexier than reality?

First, it’s critical we define fantasy because I believe there is a chasm between how men and women define this term. Men and women speak different languages and think in different ways. I think the trick is to bridge that gap without judging one another (or perceiving it as a threat to the femininity / masculinity of each another).

I’ve had this discussion with my male friends and asked “…do you fantasize?” The most honest answer I received was “Nah. We just masturbate. And besides. Why fixate on something that’s not real. If I can’t do it, I don’t want to think about it.”

Most of the women I know both believe and give in to the indulgence of fantasy. We define fantasy as an extension of our own reality. It’s our lives on steroids, magic mushrooms, heroin and cocaine. In fantasy, there is no disease, vice or regulation to possibility.

Is this because men and women are hardwired differently (nature)? Is it because men have been taught that nothing is beyond their reach, while societal constraints are placed on women (nurture)? I don’t know…but there’s probably some study out there that discusses this, just like there’s men out there who imagine the impossible, for the sheer pleasure of imagination.

Also, it is important to note that ‘fantasy’ is not just about the potential sexuality in any imagined situation, but rather the heightened super-human perfection of the self. And so ‘fantasy’ means being the world’s best writer, funniest comedienne, prettiest girl, the fourth member of The Power Puff Girls, kindest soul, fastest runner, sharpest strategist, strongest opponent, most vulnerable female, Oscar winning actress, rock-your-world girlfriend, prettiest crier, most nurturing mum, bestest friend in the whole wide world, able to leap over buildings, etc.

Not to mention the different layers of fantasy: (1) Fantasy With Potential (e.g. I want to walk on the moon); and, (2) Fantasy Without Potential (e.g. I want to leap over tall buildings).

But the original question posed fixates on the more illicit part of fantasy, and it is on that subject that I will offer my $0.02.

So my answer to your question is…
Yes: Film & fantasy are sexier than reality. Hence why we call it 'fantasy'.

Tyler Durden was hyper reality. His testosterone-driven character was slammed into two hours of testosterone-shot film. Tyler’s never bought me flowers. Or called me. Or asked me out to dinner. Because Tyler’s not real.

He is a figment of someone’s imagination, but for short moments in time, he becomes a part of my life and on to which I project what I want.

Note: I’m not fantasizing about Brad Pitt, the man, but rather Tyler Durden, the embodiment of certain characteristics.

But sometimes, there is fantasy around a certain actor / actress (which is: Fantasy Without Potential).

Let’s return to Gerry Butler and his leather speedo. Before meeting Gerry Butler, I thought he was a fox. I based that solely on my perception of what his PR people allowed him to show his audience. After I met him, I confirmed that he was a fox. But now that the restraining order has been issued, I’ll never really know.

Wait. What?

Sorry. Erm. Back to my point…
You lose yourself in fantasy when you’re bored and when there’s nothing in reality that can hold your attention or peak your interest. But that shouldn’t be perceived as a threat to the masculinity of real guys.

Meaning (& again I speak for myself here): While allowing ourselves the room for fantasy, that does not take away from the magic of a man in reality. Ergo, if I am sitting around thinking about Gerry Butler, and the man of my dreams asks me out for coffee out of the blue…Gerry Butler’s gone, baby. He’s history. Unless, of course, Gerry Butler’s the one asking me out for coffee (don’t laugh! ‘Tis a distinct possibility!).

What I’m getting at is that there’s nothing wrong with fantasy, so long as one understands it is just that. I’ll go so far as to say that Fantasy With Potential is an excellent thing and can serve as a driving force for people. But Fantasy Without Potential can be very damaging when the individual fantasizing confuses reality with fantasy and announces to his wife that he’s ”flying out to Tokyo where Angelina Jolie’s shooting a movie. I want to give it a chance because I think there’s a real possibility of us working out.”

And after years of marriage…Fantasy Without Potential will be inevitable. Chances are not in the first few years when the two are still gaga over one another and not even Gerry Butler in a leather speedo can rip your thoughts away from your man, but definitely later…just take a peek at all of the message boards about male celebrities out there. I would guess that most of the dedicated and heavy posters are either really young or have been married for years…

Better Gerry Butler (Fantasy Without Potential) than Bob from the office (Fantasy With Potential).

Can a couple of 37 years avoid this? Maybe...and I'll blog about that in about 40 years from now (I promise!).

Aside: Find it difficult to call him "Gerry", and must reference him as Gerry Butler...
...I hope that answers your questions.

Meet Tyler Durden

Y’all remember Shawn? He’s been MIA for some time because he’s finishing his screenplay (did you know that he writes scripts with the likes of the Shrek team...We have a regular celebrity cruising this place). Shawn’s been fixating on his work and I do appreciate that he still comes here and reads…

In an email he sent me this morning, he wrote: PS -- I do, however, have one question: When a woman lists "protection" as a prime attraction attribute she looks for in a man, what the heck does that mean? Protection from what? Wind? Rain? Roving packs of dingos? Great White sharks? Bonks on the head? Do women really feel so unsafe they prize a bodyguard above all else?

…so am going to answer the above as today’s blog entry…

And for the record, everything I am about to write is about me and should not serve as a generalisation re women. It is merely my personal perspective on how I relate to men and the kind of man I want in my life. Other women can speak for themselves…

It’s not that I feel unsafe (at least not here in North America where I don’t have to worry about rape as genocide and my man murdered due to his chosen religion) or actually need protection. It’s more that I want to make certain the man I’m with would – should the occasion arise – be capable of protecting me (most notably: physically).

This doesn’t mean I can’t protect myself, but it does mean that I believe he would afford better physical protection (perhaps even better social protection, but that is an extremely different dynamic & conversation which I can’t cover right now). Ultimately, I don’t want to throw down with anyone except the punching bag in the gym…but I like me a fearless, fierce & aggressive man.

In return, there are things which he could find inside himself (to a degree), but are better received from me. For me equality does not mean ‘sameness’, but rather, recognition that the differences inherent in both must be equally valued and revered. Within this discussion is a greater feminist argument to be made and for which I don’t have the patience this morning (and for the record, I don’t believe that a woman’s ability to bare her breasts on Girls Gone Wild is a measure of a progressive feminist movement. That measure comes in the form of: Women in office, the right to equal pay & education, etc.) .

The best way to explain this is to reference two of my favourite movies, the one I consider the quintessential chick flick: Fight Club, and Gladiator. The former rips in to the whole notion that men live in gyms and sculpt their bodies for the aesthetic (read: Mr. Universe) rather than out of necessity (read: war & hunting). In the later, Russell’s character embodies all of the characteristics I look for in a man (especially the short skirt).

But we don’t live in the age of Maximus, and so I find that I lean toward the aggression of Tyler (who > had he lived in the time of Maximus, would have been a less romantic version of…).

Tyler Durden is the anti-Metrosexual. I thought I used to dig the Metrosexual, until I was placed in some situations where the Metrosexual turned into the Superpansy. The Tyler Durdens of this world are primal and aggressive and they bleed and they don’t manicure their god damn nails. When faced with challenge and fear, they’re anything but scared…which, I think, is a rare quality in 2006.

As an aside and beyond the above, let me get to the nitty gritty of Tyler Durden. As basic instinct dictates, Tyler seems to possess both incarnations that meet my off-the-top-of-my-head needs of swaggering rightfully-cocky sex-bomb:



& raging animal:



(& remember: I think Brad Pitt’s kind’a ugly.) On a personal note, I’ve only ever met two men who fit the above profile(s). They are the archetypical alpha males and always, there is an aggression that sits right beneath the surface and in to which they could tap (and both have) should they need to.

Many women like the soft-spoken drunken and tortured poet (someone I got over when I was 22). I prefer the guy that’s spitting blood and with knuckles ripped…defying and challenging anything that stands between him & what he wants. (& I don't mean this in the Bushian way...but rather, with principles that match my own. And if I'm what's on the other side of that challenge and he's spitting blood in order to get to me, my heart's already racing and I'm already short of breath...)

Wow. I probably have a lot of daddy issues.

A Bisexual & A Pedophile In An Irish Bar

.1. In preparation for St. Patrick’s Day celebration, have been listening to The Latino Bisexual.

Some call him Ricky Martin.

The fast tracks on his new CD (released Oct ’05) Life are bum-shaking awesome. I encourage you to dl ”I Am”; it’s one of the best & most mindless songs I’ve heard in a long time.

The Latino Bisexual was the first celebrity I had a crunch on. I was 9 and he was 12 (he was so old) and I didn’t understand Spanish but I understood “pretty”, and he was just that. With his soft feathered hair and big puppy dog eyes, he reminded me of my stuffed animals and so I was under direct obligation to crunch on him.

If only innocence remained as such…

.2. But with age comes attraction to foxes like Gerry Butler:



Who recently finished shooting 300 (in Montreal) where he wears a leather Speedo for the duration of the film. In his leather Speedo, Gerry Butler looks like this:



& like this:



Which is fine…but personally, I prefer it when Gerry Butler does the robot (& as this photo clearly illustrates, he does so well).

.3. Yesterday, I purchased a t-shirt that reads: Nerds need love too. Now I just need a hoodie with D.O.R.K. emblazoned on the back. If anyone finds one, please let me know.

.4. T has taken the day off work today and is heading out to the Heart & Crown at 1 p.m. to begin St. Patrick’s Day celebration. I’ll be joining her closer to 5 once I leave the office. Am feeling quite festive today and so decided to wear my green Care Bears t-shirt with a shamrock toting Care Bear and Lucky written on it.

I’ve not bothered with an actual St. Patrick’s Day celebration for the last few years; the closest I came was at the Montreal parade three years back, when I was accosted by a drunken Irish guy who wouldn’t let me walk away until I agreed to wear a headband that had two huge sparkly green shamrocks springing from it. They were heavy and every time I moved, it felt as though my entire head was bouncing.

I eventually forgot that I was wearing it and so kept it on for hours.

This year should bring interesting stories, memories & photos. Shall post whatever happens later tonight (I expect to be home relatively early as the girls are starting at 1 and most likely close to finishing by the time I arrive. Chances are, I’ll be stuffing them in to a cab by 7 or 8).

.4. Am uncertain as to how I forgot, but one of the most important memories from Denver is The Jesus. The Jesus who said: “…I’ll pull the fucking trigger 'til it goes "click"”, which is one of the funniest and most ridiculous lines in the history of film.



I was laying down when I heard it and laughed so hard that I almost choked.

Check this out! It’s just. Wow. WOW.

I wonder if they’ll let me join…I could work a purple body suit & a hairnet. But my body suit will read: “Mohammed”. And then I’ll get killed. Because it’s in Texas. Where they don’t like Islamics.

I’m goin’ to hell. But at least I’ll have a purple body suit.

Reality Television in the UK (am now connected)

Remember my friend Charlie...

Well, I forgot to mention this, but he is on a reality (noooooooooooooooooo, Charlie!) television show in the U.K. It is called Space Cadets and looks to be absolutely hilarious (although I do hate reality television and would never watch it in a million years, no matter how much I like the participant in question). Take a peek and enjoy the mayhem.

I will tell you this much: I read the premise of this and thought it hilarious (& wickedly cruel).

Charlie is the third one in from the right; I do hope no one disliked him, he’s such a lovely boy in person…and I want him to marry Hannah.

U2 & UN

.1. This is why U2 should only be seen in Montreal.

During the entire show on Friday night, T & I were quite aware of the difference in delivery and reception between the band and the crowd.

I think it's because of Montreal's political world and their complete embrace of everything inspired, politically, by U2.

Next tour, I'm going back to Montreal > but, for the final show, rather than the first. Don't you know? It's always better the second time around.

.2. Am thinking of going elsewhere to work with the United Nations.

Will keep y’all posted…and eventually explain why am in such a mood...

U2's Vertigo Tour

T, K, D & I went to U2 last night.

When I landed in Ireland, the first place I went to was The U2 Wall. I got lost, but a really nice taxi driver took me and refused to accept payment. God, I loved Ireland.

If unfamiliar with The U2 Wall, here’s a small blip: ” The U2 Wall is located down an alley way near the docksides on the south side of the Liffey. Marked only with a small plaque, the grafitti covered crumbling walls mark the now vacant Windmill Lane Studios where U2 recorded their early albums in the late 1970s”. My addition to The Wall was: ”You began as the call to one generation and have since become the voice of all that followed. Thank you.”

I hadn’t known what I was going to write, and the fact that I got lost gave me a little more time to think…

Last we saw U2 was during their Elevation Tour, the final night they performed in Montreal. That show was insane because for nearly 60% of it, no one could hear Bono because the crowd was singing so loud. He kept removing his earplugs and laughing.

When he was later asked which of the venues was the loudest and craziest, he said it was the night they played the last show in Montreal. We couldn’t speak for days after that show…

Anyway. Arcade Fire (whose name I originally misheard as 'Our Gay Fire') opened, and although I like the punk edge of their music, I am curious as to how they got together, and what their jam sessions are like. Watch them perform, and you’ll understand my curiosity. They’re a local Montreal band worth catching, and they’re opening again tonight and Monday (in Montreal).

When the lights went down, in preparation for U2’s entrance and we were watching the stage waiting for them to come out, I actually felt as though I were going to explode. The sound was deafening, in anticipation of their arrival and the energy within the Centre was absolutely electric.

Within our section, I was one of five other people on my feet nearly the entire time. At certain points, T & K would stand up…but it was predominantly me, and it was great! At one point, though, I almost climbed over the chairs in front of me to join the other four who were equally rocking out, but they were a little weird.

It’s a U2 concert…how can people remain seated?

The visual of the concert was pure funk. The experience left me teetering between: Feeling as though I were inside of an arcade that had crashed into a lava lamp and / or standing inside one light that’s part of a light show in a Japanese disco. Either one was super cool.

Apart from the regular brilliant performances of Mysterious Ways, Where the Streets Have No Name and Sunday Bloody Sunday, there were a few others which stood out…

I have to say that Original of the Species and A Man and a Woman possess some of U2’s top lyrical content and are reminiscent of their work on Achtung Baby. Listening to their performance live was incredible.

They did a spectacular rendition of One with a lot more guitar, making it sound more bluesy. It’s always been a lazy / lounge song for me, but listening to them perform it the way they did, I was forced to sit down, close my eyes and get lost in the guitar.

The ending of the show was equally unique, with each one of them leaving individually and their screen images fading out. Bono left first, then Adam, the Edge and finally Larry. While Larry was the last one on stage, he pounded out the craziest beats and the crowd went wild. Pardon me while I gush here for a moment; Larry Mullen Jr will always be a fox. He’ll be 78 years old, and a fox. He has the world’s best upper body, and his forearms are. Just. Perfect.

As much as I love Bono, Larry is the definitive of cool. Probably because his controlled exterior looks like it's always on the edge of exploding wide open. But it never does.

After coming home, I couldn’t help but think about the wonder of it. These four boys from Dublin who started as a little punk band and who are, now, to me and so many others, the quintessential band of several generations the world over.

Stadiums in almost every part of this tiny globe erupt when these four men come on stage.

And when all is said and done, they go home to be dads and husbands.

Wow.

A Hollywood boy I'd give it up for...

...is not the man who said this:

"You know how a little girl cannot be a woman but a woman can be a little girl? That's a quality I like."
- Matthew McConaughey

T just sent me that quote and although it makes me weak at the knees, I still wouldn't give it up for Matthew. But I do love him.

Ha ha ha

D took us to Just For Laughs show this evening. I was excited to attend because I absolutely. Adore...

Shaun Majumder.

He was the host and…then there were:
.1. Scott Faulconbridge:He likes to wear diapers on his head. My dad could use to learn from him. And…he received the biggest laugh from me when he was discussing male shrinkage in cold water and ended with “…In cold water, I have a vagina…”
.2. Rod 'Rodman' Thompson:His wife must adore him and I thought he was hysterical, most especially when he was talking to Whitie in the front row, saying he probably didn’t understand him.
.3. Rocky LaPorte:I almost passed out because I was laughing so hard and forgot to breath.
.4. Carl Barron: An Australian dude who spoke his own special language and has forever affected the way I wear flip flops.
.5. Ryan Belleville: A Canadian boy living in L.A. (whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?!) who pretty much killed me. This guy’s energy level is insane and I almost collapsed a lung.

But I was there for Shaun.

I still remember the first time I saw him; he was wearing a baby bonnet and seated in a baby seat for some comedy skit. An image I couldn’t erase while we were chatting later. Frankly, there’s not too many men who would leave me wanting more if the baby bonnet were the first impression…make certain you listen to the sound clips at the bottom of his page; I almost wet myself listening to Learning Chinese.

Here we are backstage (This photo was taken right after he forced me to hold his grapes (fascist!))...


He may be an excellent comedian but he is a shit blogger. GET BLOGGING, SHAUN! (& erm. Will gladly hold your grapes any day.)

Oh! Make certain you catch the Just for Laughs show when it comes to your area (they went to Moncton...apparently, they'll go anywhere...)

Tragedy Khadafi

This coming Monday, on November 7th, Booker Sim will have his NYC premiere of Tragedy: The Story of Queensbridge.

I honestly wish I could be there. First and foremost because Booker is such a nice guy and one worthy of support (not my opinion alone) and because Tragedy Khadafi is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Am listening to Still Reporting right now.

And...for the record, I love the new poster for the documentary. The older version, with the gun had no essence of hope to it. He's praying in this one, since his hands are positioned proper for Muslim du'a (prayer). I got goose bumps when I saw the new poster; it's a much more powerful image than the previous. Job well done (Bravo!).

Yusuf Islam

Someone asked me earlier today: "What sort of man would you like to marry?"

The most honest answer I could give was someone like our old friend Cat Stevens, now Yusuf Islam. This man is so articulate and aware and totally at ease with his life and his surroundings. He is, for me at least, kind of ideal.

I think the two most intriguing (& what draws me) characteristics about this man are: (1) the darker parts of his life which have guided him to where he is today (I am not all that seduced by someone who has always been on the 'right path'); and, (2) the strength of character and personality it would take to move from Cat Stevens to Yusuf Islam. The ability to walk away from a life so seductive and so rampant with temptation is perhaps the most unambiguously masculine of what makes him attractive.

There are a lot of boys in this world, but very few men, of which he is one.

Kim Coates @ TIFF

While there, met several interesting actors; my favorite run in was with Kim Coates. He’s a Saskatchewan boy currently making a Cronenberg (spelling?) film about werewolves. We sat together for a good 20 minutes and killed ourselves laughing from start to finish. I honestly don’t understand why he’s not done comedy up until this point, as he is hilarious. He actually had me doubled over in fits of hysteria, with tears rolling down my face.

He’s married with two daughters and so you should all get your minds out of the gutter…

Google him, and watch his films, he’s worth it…if for no other reason than he was genuinely wonderful company.

Remember, Val Kilmer & Sophie

.1. Srebrenica.

.2. I hope everyone has had…a relatively calm weekend. All friends and family are well in the UK; have spoken with everyone and am looking forward to getting over there at the end of the month. Am also very excited that will see one of my oldest celebrity crushes – Val Kilmer (shut up!) – on the last night of his play in the West End. Understand he is a wee bit more bloated than when I last swooned (somewhere between Ice Man and The Saint) but am still excited as it is Val Kilmer.

Itinerary is as follows >> Will be in Scotland laying in the grass and staring over cliffs to drown my imagination in the sea.

Then. I will jump on an airplane, fly down to London for an approximate 18 hours, during which I will meet Hannah for the play, eat dinner at The Ivy, stay awake chatting about nonsense and all sense until I jump back on another plane to head back to Glasgow…

Pretentious, isn’t it?

.3. Months back, I mentioned Sophie – the wife of Mohamed Harkat, one of the four men being detained without charge under the guise of the ‘Security’ Certificate issued in order to…erm…to…keep Canada ‘safe’. Recall that the fifth man, Adil Charkaoui, at whose bail hearing we were last, is not being detained, per se, but is residing under restrictions fit for someone guilty of drugging, raping, torturing and murdering some young girls (but then again, Homolka has no alleged ties with Al Qaeda and so she can’t possibly be that bad).

Right. So Sophie and I have been conversing for the last couple of months and although having run into one another at several events, we are finally going to sit together tomorrow evening. I have already sent her some rather intimate questions as I am interested in writing about the impact of the ‘Security’ Certificates on her, as a woman, and not on her, as someone who was chosen by history to be some sort of activist.

Also, Tuesday evening will be another night spent with her, well…actually, it will be a night spent watching her, and so I hope to have the article written by some time next week.

.4. I will keep plugging away at deleting Bob’s comments (Laura & Jez, I was forced to repost your comments, hence the odd time stamp!), all the while keeping only the one comment section on so as to get a sense of the work involved in dealing with Bob.

Personal 'Closer' Notes

.1. Before I tell you about the film we saw last evening, I want you to take a look at this and let me know if you find it as odd as I. This is no joke; these are actual priests and this is the calendar they made.

Perhaps our sheiks would do the same, in an effort to better the PR that currently bogs them down, the poor souls. They can all be wearing different sized hats and coloured robes...walking down the street, pulling Americans out of disastrous and dangerous situations, one could even have a bubble that reads: "Allah bless America".

Note to self: Look into making that a sticker that folks can place on the back of their cars. Would make millions in Chicago alone!

Note to you: By virtue of me blogging that idea, it is copy written to me, asap (because it is dated), so I dare you to try and take that idea from me Remember: I do have a legal background.

.2. Jude Law is an attractive man...as is Clive Owen, but the film Closer was more than about being a pretty face; it was also about T & A, much thanks to Natalie Portman.

No, ok. It wasn't only about that, it was about how one can cheat and be unfaithful and be a creep and gross and sick and twisted and sleep with a whore and be an absolutely morally lacking individual yet (drum roll) remain really well dressed and be very pretty.

The movie was terrible. We were actually groaning near the end, the women behind us laughing every time one of the characters decided to tell the other (for the umpteenth time) that they cheated on them, or that they didn’t love them, or that they wanted them to make a cup of tea. Worst thing about this movie is that it glamorised to a great degree, the moral bankruptcy of these four characters, almost an affirmation that this sort of unfaithfulness is the norm, that it is acceptable and to be expected. But their moral bankruptcy was really twisted and severe, for they would (eventually) “tell the truth”. Honestly, had I been any of those characters, I would have opened a seriously massive can of whup-ass at several different intervals during the course of the film.

Weird that the men wanted to know the sickest details and all the women wanted was to leave. Clean break, if possible…which I would think it never is. But what of the languages the two sexes were speaking? The women were talking a completely different language than the men and this was really disturbing to watch.

And what is with stripping? Do they do the sorts of things that Natalie Portman was doing? And how? For everyone? Wow. Also, when did Cirque du Soleil start taking its clothes off? And frankly, there is no way that a stripper would be wearing La Perla and Lejaby – which she was wearing. Absolutely not to throw these exquisite pieces of lingerie on to dirty perverted men in suits and ties.

The film disturbed me immensely; and anyone who thinks this an honest depiction of reality and relationships, should really re-evaluate their perspectives on men and women and when it was that the stupids started behaving like brutes and animals….and more importantly, when it was that as a society, it became the norm.

And the worst part is that this movie had no linear message, no message at all, in fact. Here are the messages I heard:
Sex is unrelated to love.
No, wait. Sex is related to love and can only mean something if two people are in love.
No. Not really.
Just joking on that one.
But seriously, no matter what you do, it’s okay to have sex with a prostitute because no one will ever bring it up again.
And please: be explicit when you describe how you cheated on me.
Better yet, videotape it so I can watch it over and over and over again.
And if you must, cheat on me in my own home.
And make certain to do it on the nicest piece of furniture we have.
And art is nothing but a bunch of lies.
But so are we.
Touch my face and I will love you.
Lie to me, and all will be well.
But I hate you.
And I am leaving you because I don’t love you anymore.
Though I loved you, and lied to you about my real name.
Being naked is the only form of “real”.
And piss off already, because my wig has more character than you do.
And the grass is always greener.
But not really.

In all fairness, there was one truth: Before one cheats, before one makes that move to cross that line, there is a moment. There is one final moment, your last grace, that you can either ignore or respect. In this instance, it was Jude who said “Come here”. That was the moment and that was the catalyst. Interestingly enough, it was the one who initiated this moment, who was the first to cross that line that was the ultimate loser.

.3. Dumb. Stupid. Useless. Nonsense. Don’t waste your time; watch Love Actually instead, or porn if you must. Really.

.4. If Closer is any indication of reality, I prefer my bubble world filled with romance and flowers and a little heartache, but an honest heartache and not one born of defilement and deviance and absolute disrespect for the person you choose to commit to.

.5. Yes: Am being judgemental. This is my blog; deal with it.

.6. Jude Law is really hairy.

.7. If you are a man and you wish to pursue me, pay very close attention to the following: A man is someone who is not scared to commit, recognizing fully well that there will always be temptation (a smart woman will also see this). Strength of character rests in the reality that you will keep it in your god damn pants. Otherwise, you’re just a beast, without the faculty to recognise right from wrong, and do the right thing.

It takes strength to commit and to remain commited; if you can't hack it, you don't deserve a woman like me.

.8. Yes: Am being judgemental. This is my life; deal with it.

.9. Promise to be much more upbeat tomorrow (really).