Token Smokin' Hottie: Vincent Cassel

I went to see Black Swan the other week and the moment Vincent Cassel came on screen the two biddies behind me started crapping on to each other in the way that, in my experience, Women Of A Certain Age seem to feel they have the right to do.

"Now WHERE do we know him from?" one said to the other, not making any attempt to keep her voice down.

"Oh he is SO familiar," the other one said.

I wanted to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up - I'd just forked out 15 bucks - but of course I didn't.

It's not just that I hate people who talk during a movie, although I really really do. I think maybe it's more that I can't fucking stand people who talk during a movie when Vincent Cassel is on screen.

Interviews with Cassel always seem to refer to him as an "unlikely" sex symbol to which I think Hmm, Really? He seems like a kinda likely sex symbol to me. I mean, firstly the man is French which is, honestly, pretty hot. Yes it's a big fat cliche to find the accent hot it just is. Secondly he's married to Monica Bellucci, one of the most blazingly scorchingly smoking hot women who has ever graced the silver screen so obviously he's got something going on in the looks department.

And yet, of course, I can see what they mean. He shouldn't be hot. His nose is too big. His face is... kinda cragged. It's sort of difficult to believe he's hiding a smoking hot body under his clothes. Yet somehow he comes off sexy, like a hot professor and semi-dangerous, not like he's going to cut a bitch but like maybe he might be willing to put his hand up your skirt at a party before you've been properly introduced.

Oddly enough he hasn't been mentioned all that much in the reviews of Black Swan that I've read but I think he deserves a lot more credit. Part of the reason that Black Swan works in spite of the fact that it's kind of nuts over the top and ridiculous is that it's also pretty sexy. And the sexiest thing about it? Well, the boys will disagree, but my vote goes to Cassel, even though his character is a bit... um... well I guess...look, I'm trying not to spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen it, but he borders on the side of being kind of a sexual harasser, is all I'm saying.

And yet, perversely, he makes it look good.

The thing I hate today...

Facebook bores. I don't mean people who update their status' All The Time (because I am almost one of them) nor people who leave utterly inance status updates about their children/pets/accomplishments. I mean people who like to brag that they have either never used Facebook or used to use it but don't anymore as though they believe it makes them a better kind of person than the rest of us. You're not better and nobody cares*.




* Because one of my favourite people in the world is NOT on Facebook I should point out here that my problem isn't with people who don't use Facebook but only with those who think they deserve a medal for it.

Mia culpa

Sorry for being an insanely slack blogger lately. I haven't had much time off, so I can't blame the holidays. Really it comes down to the fact that I have been a bit down in the dumps work-wise and have been trying to avoid bitching about it. Which is clearly what I'm doing right now. So apologies. Again.

Next week: some jokes!

Christmas, 2011

At least I now know what I'll be getting for Christmas NEXT year.

White Out

I really wish more Australian boys would get onboard the white look for summer.

The other week I found myself all but following some random guy into the city. It's not as creepy as it sounds: we were just walking the same way for about 15 minutes and - yes - I could have gone another route but I preferred to follow him because I was completely entranced, even though I could basically barely make out his face. The reason - it occured to me after about two blocks - was that he was wearing all white: a loose white shirt and a pair of quite delightful white pants, worn with what looked like a really simple pair of thongs. Better yet he was carrying absolutely nothing - no bag, not texting away - and gave off a vibe of being about as carefree as a boy can be on a warm summer day.

In short, he looked amazing and so much cooler (in, I guess, both senses of the word) than the Aussie muppets who run around in boardies and thongs all summer long. I'm just putting it out there in the hope that it will catch on and I can take full credit but I reckon this is The Look for boys this summer. So come on male reader(s): buy your white clothes now, thank me later. Oh, and for GOD'S SAKE please send me a photo.

Scenes from a Bon Jovi concert

ME (To the person next to me): Is he... not wearing a shirt under his leather jacket?
RANDOM GIRL IN FRONT OF ME (Turning around): HE NEVER WEARS A SHIRT! HOW HOT IS HE!!
ME (Nervous smile. Long pause): I bet he gets really sweaty.

Cute boys and cats

So I saw someone else linking to this site, Cute Boys With Cats, and my immediate thought was that I have not entirely normal taste and the chances that I would find these boys cute was slim to none. Then I realised the truth: any boy looks 100 per cent cuter with a cat on his lap/arm/face. True story.

Brilliant

Do you remember that scene in High Fidelity (both the book and the film) where the main character meets up with an ex-girlfriend, the one he has put on a pedastal for years and year, only to discover that she's awful. That's the word he uses: "She's AWFUL." Still hot (played in the film by Catherine Zeta Jones) but pretentious, boring and completely self-obsessed.

Turns out, I've had a very similar experience. I recently met up with someone from my school days (nobody, I should note, who reads this blog). In the old days this guy was the object of half the school's desire. He was beautiful, super smart and seemed like he had all the answers. I mooned over him for a good wasted year or two, too blind to realise he was probably actually a bit of a wanker.

Then I met up with him again, through pure chance that thrust us together for a few days. He was still gorgeous, still apparently very smart. And he was awful. Just AWFUL. I don't want to transcribe any of the things he did or said here, just in case he stumbles onto this blog and recognises himself, but it was bad. He was pretentious, completely self-obsessed to the point where he couldn't talk about anything else, and utterly deluded about his place in the world.

I loved it.

I loved being able to subtly take the piss out of him without him appearing to realise it. I loved having some of my friends ask me who this wanker was. I loved completely blowing him off towards the end because I just Could Not Be Arsed Dealing With Him.

The whole experience made me wish I had gone to my 10 Year School Reunion earlier this year. Would have been great fun.

Quotable Quotes: an oldie but a goodie for a very grim Tuesday

“I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness, sad as an eagle without wings, sad as a violin with only one string and one that is broken, sad as a woman who is growing old.” (Jean Rhys)

Yeah apparently her parents let her out of the house like this. A lot.

This one is just for the saddos like me who harbour a deep and abiding love for the following things:

1. The TV series Gossip Girl.
2. The TV series Project Runway and, more specifically, the delightful Tim Gunn.

I have apparently been living under some kind of rock. How else to explain the fact that I missed Mr Gunn utterly unloading on Gossip Girl's least talented, most annoying actress: Taylor Momsen, who plays "Jenny" in the series. You know Momsen: the 16-year-old who dresses like a 38-year-old meth-addicted hooker whose rent was due yesterday.

Gunn recently filmed a guest spot on Gossip Girl (which was, I admit, kinda painful to watch) and apparently found Momsen something of a douche:

"What a diva!" he told E! News. "She was pathetic, she couldn't remember her lines, and she didn't even have that many. I thought to myself 'why are we all being held hostage by this brat?'"

Gunn said that Momsen's constant Blackberry use was the main problem and the director told him it happened "day in, day out, my life." He said that if he was a regular on the show he would give her some advice.

"I'd say, 'You know young lady, there are hundreds of thousands of girls who are just as attractive and even smarter than you. Why are you acting like this show is a huge burden on you?'" he told E! "She was on her phone during every break, I wanted to tell her, 'If you weren't on your BlackBerry, you can retain this stuff.'"

You can read the rest here.

Like I say this is seriously old news (I'm talking September) but I couldn't resist because I love it. I love it so much that I want to beg Gunn to shadow me in my daily life, taking potshots at all the people who get up my nose and doing so in charming, well-clad way.

I don't know what you're talking about...

... everything in my life is just going PERFECTLY. Honest.

High points and low points from a weekend of festivities:

LOW: Realising, several hours into the night, that doing my makeup in the back of a moving taxi and without a mirror had yielded results there were more "streaky racoon" than "stunning temptress".

HIGH: Discovering that I still know the lyrics from that Butterly Effect song that was really big years and years ago. Come on, you know the one.

LOW: Hour-long car ride to a family-do The Morning After with a stinking hangover.

HIGH Having one of those magical taxi experiences when you are walking towards a (packed) taxi rank and pass by one with its light on, which immediately pulls over for you. Double points for not having a creepy driver with a rapist vibe!

LOW Thinking I looked pretty good right up until the point I walked out of the bathroom stall to find one of the hottest girls I have ever seen in my entire life admiring her arse in the mirror. Fuck, if I had an arse like that I'd never stray far from the mirror either.

For the recently dumped

I don't usually link to the lovely Nick Lezard's column, because there's already a link sitting on the right-hand-side of this blog and I figure you can click on it any old time you like. That much said, his latest column is a charmer and worth your time, particularly for the recently dumped.

An open letter to the prick who tried to steal my car,

Dear Hoodlum,

First of all, congratulations on your fine choice of automobile. Most people look at my car and see a shitty and somewhat-dented hatchback. You looked at it and saw what I see: a sweet ride that runs like a dream, asks little for little in the way of maintenance and never breaks down in a crisis. Granted, neither the air-conditioning or heating are what they used to be (ie: functional) but the windows roll down easily and the radio is in excellent working order at least 95 per cent of the time.

And yet.

I don't mean to be cruel but if you're not able to successfully steal an unattended 1986 Ford Laser with one broken lock perhaps you should, dare I say it, look into a new line of work. Yes, I agree, you did manage to prise the little metal casing off from the ignition but it would appear that - judging by the fact I still have my car - the operation went somewhat pear shaped right about then. What went wrong? Was it that the ignition lock proved more complex than you had imagined or was it simply that you failed to come prepared with a suitable array of tools at your disposal?

Worse still, you showed a complete lack of initiative. The backseat of my car contained a box stuffed with a delightful array of trashy novels - inclduing the complete Sookie Stackhouse series, which is a rolickingly good read - but you left them untouched. The front seat contained a bag of Felicity DVDs (all four seasons), which you also left behind. Is it that you don't care for American 90s college dramas starring Keri Russell or is it that you're simply unable to think on your feet and take advantage of a situation?

In closing, while I share your fondness for my beloved vehicle I feel obliged to strongly recommend that you give up the car-stealing business, as it is a trade in which you show very little skill or willingness to learn. If you're not prepared to put in the yard hards and acquire some suitable tools or training I'm afraid I see very little future for you in this business.

Also, while it pains me to be cruel to a fello Laser Hatchback enthusiast I must also warn you that if I ever find you trying to steal my baby again I'll run you down in the fucking street.

Best Wishes etc.

Cocks of the Week

I did want to write something about what went on in Northam yesterday. But I fear my profanity may frighten the little ones.

The Pumpkin Incident

Halloween, as everyone knows, is an excuse for girls to dress like sluts and not get called sluts. It's a wonderful thing. I typed "as everyone knows" but this is, perhaps, inaccurate. It would have been more accurate to say "as everyone finds out one day". For me that day was about 15 years ago at a Halloween party when I was on the cusp of my teenage years.

The Halloween party was being thrown by a neighbourhood friend of mine who was a year or two older than me and much, much more mature. I, for instance, did not then know that Halloween was an excuse to doll myself up in something black, skin-tight and as revealing as was logistically possible.

Hence my decision to dress up as a pumpkin.

The costume was a simple: I stuffed a lurid oversized orange t-shirt with an old bed sheet, cinched it in at the waist with a belt and poked my scrawny pre-pubsecent legs into a pair of green leggings. A green ice-cream container, jammed onto my head, completed the winning ensemble. Sadly no photos of the event survive to this day but I looked, I can only presume, like an obese 8-year-old with jaundice. My Mum said I looked great.

I realised I had made a mistake only when I arrived at the party to discover two things:

1. There were boys at this party.
2. Almost every single other girl at the party was dressed as a slutty witch.

This was not like any of the parties I had attended to date, where parents oversaw wholesome party games involving balloons, everyone was included and the worst that could happen was a bad red creaming soda spill. Here, girls giggled together in groups, ignoring plates of sausage rolls, flicking their hair and flashing glances towards the groups of boys who frankly looked as bemused as I did.

These girls were not like the girls I knew: their hair was shiny and styled, their barely blossoming boobs pointed skyward with the aid of push-up bras and their red lips and black eyes revealed that they, unlike I, had known the touch of a make-up brush. To me, waddling across the room in my pumpkin finery, they appeared not like girls at all but minature women.

Needless to say they terrified me.

Even so I did not actually flee the scene until someone decided that a game of Spin The Bottle was just what the balmy spring evening called for. In vain I looked for a parental figure to intervene and suggest a rousing game of Pass the Parcel, or perhaps just a round of cold showers, instead. But my friends parents simply smiled indulgently and disappeared to another part of house, upping the volume on Hey, Hey It's Saturday to drown out the sound of teenage hormones zinging through the air. Silently I fumed at their idea of responsible parenting, thinking to myself that if one or all of their daughters wound up impregnated by a douchebag called "Stevo" by their 16th birthday they would have nobody to blame but themselves.

Then - and only then - did I flee.

Which all goes to explain what happened this weekend when I donned a short black dress, threw on some slap and plaited my hair to attend a Halloween party. What the hell was I supposed to be exactly? I was calling it 'Slutty Wednesday Adams'.

Naturally my costume was put to absolute shame by many of the others, particularly the brave fellow who dresed as a triffid from John Wyndham's charming novel, Day of the Triffids. Unsurprisingly, however, I blended in perfectly well among the gaggle of other women. Lo here a sexy spy (short Stella McCartney-for-Target black dress, big blonde hair, legs up to her armpits), yonder there a Saucy Catwoman (skin-tight leggings, come-fuck-me boots and a token pair of cat ears).

And, hey, it only took me 15-odd years to learn that lesson.

Token Smokin' Hottie: Riccardo Scamarcio

I KNOW that Italian men cannot possibly be as universally hot as the world of cinema would have me believe.

And yet if they all looked like Riccardo Scamarcio I'd be on a plane right now.

The problem with Scamarcio is that he doesn't look like he's all that in a still photo: he's one of those token smokin' hotties who really has to be seen on the screen to be appreciated. I came up against him in the film Loose Cannons* last night. It was a pretty so-so film made less endurable by the fact that I was sitting with the world's most annoying people on either side of me (on the left: two shrieking nutbars, on the right: the world's loudest and most disgusting popcorn eater ever. Plus there was a guy behind me who kept scratching himself for a good 5 minutes at a time. Weird. ).

And yet, although the film was not that great and in spite of the fact that it also featured the sublime Giorgio Marchesi I could not take my eyes off Scamarcio. He has - to steal an expression from my friend Nick - gravitas. In spades. It's not just the way he moves, although there is something there: it's his face. He has one of those faces you feel you could just look at for hours and hours. Not everyone has a face like that: James Franco, who is one of the most attractive people I can think of, does not. Benicio Del Toro, who isn't conventionally all that great, does. Orlando Bloom - again in theory very pretty - doesn't. Marlon Brandon did.

Scamarcio also, bizarely, has the ability to look about 16-years-old at one moment and 35 in the next. That might sound like an insult but given that he is 31 in real life I mean it as a compliment. There were moments in the film when he was romping around in bathers that I thought 'how YOUNG is this kid?' and then other moments when he was squinting into the sun, all linen shirt and pressed trousers, when I thought I'd got him wrong entirely.

Either way, I'm glad he's not 16 because a)that would make me feel a bit weird writing this because fancying a teenager seems a bit wring; and b)he's not at risk of growing out of his teenage beauty into a pudgy, bloaty 20-something. Stay gold Scamarcio, stay gold...



* As an off-topic aside I would like to express my frustration at the fact that this uneven Italian movie (starts well but goes nowhere fast) rates higher than two of my favourite films: Ladyhawke and Fletch, according to the Internet Movie Database. This is pro-European snobbery of the worst kind.

Paint it Black: Worst 5 moments experienced while painting my apartment this week

1. Trying to distinguish between 18 different shades of off-white with names like "eggshell", "ocean caps" and "chilled breeze". Lengthy exposure to those little paint cards is more paranoia-inducing than a tray of hash muffins: you start thinking am I crazy or are they all just kinda fucking off-white?

2. Accidentally painting over the light switch. Yeah doesn't seem like a big deal now but at the time I think I may actually have wept.

3. The fifth trip to Bunnings and the knowing stares from the guys in the paint department. Oh those knowing stares...

4. Getting a massage on the second day of painting and hearing the masseuse say "um, you have a lot of paint on you" in much the same tone you or I might use to inform someone "I think you have leprosy - your left hand just fell off in my soup".

5. The fumes. People, I can't emphasise this enough: when you start to giggle at nothing in particular and you're halfway up a ladder, having painted for 5 hours straight, you are already high as a kite from the fumes. Crack a window, open a door: do not breathe in.

Breathe Deeply

One of the best bits of relationship advice I ever got was from my dear and wise friend Lindsay. If you're going to do something a bit messed up, she said, then cover your tracks.

The beauty of this piece of advice - which sounds utterly obvious but really isn't always - is that it can be applied to a great number of situations. If, for instance (and obviously I'm talking PURELY hypothetically here) you are going to have a fucking BREAKDOWN about the growing suspicion that your girlfriend's enthusiasm for the relationship might be waning, it is a good idea to have said breakdown in the privacy of your own bedroom instead of, say, on the university campus in front of a whole bunch of curious people very pointedly Not Staring At The Car Crash But Actually Very Obviously Staring At the Car Crash.

Similarly, if you're going to read your sister's diary you should remember where you got the diary from in the first place and replace it, not casually leave it open on the desk to the part where your sister was (over)analysing the two minute conversation she had with Beautiful James by the stairs and wondering whether what he meant by "see you in History" was something closer to "the combination of your glasses, braces and orthodics enchants me - take me now, by the D-block lockers".

Which brings me to my friend. Let's call him... Wooster.

Before I go on, a brief disclaimer. Wooster would like it to be known that he is NOT a habitual sniffer of womens dirty underwear. Nevertheless, the facts are these:

1. Wooster did retrieve a pair of his girlfriend's dirty knickers from her laundry basket.
2. He did sniff them.
3. He did leave the knickers on the bed.
4. He was caught.
5. He is now in trouble with his girlfriend.

Leaving aside your views on knicker huffing (for the record I think it ranks fairly tamely on a spectrum of kink that includes pegging and scat) what's important to recognise is that Wooster ran into his current troubles because he forgot The Lindsay Principle: if you're going to do something a bit messed up then cover your tracks.

Here's how it could have played out.

1. Wooster did retrieve a pair of his girlfriend's knickers from her laundry basket.
2. He did sniff them.
3. He did not leave the knickers on the bed.
4. His girlfriend never needed to trouble her pretty little head about it.
5. Wooster did get to have sex with his girlfriend again.

But accidents happen. I should know: I once dyed my dear friend Ali's hair ginger. So sometimes 'covering your tracks' doesn't cut it. You did something a bit messed up and now you need to deal with it.

Or do you? Have you met my friend denial?

I met denial back in primary school when, for reasons that still remain slightly unclear to me, I at some point decided that to turn up at school IN MY PAJAMAS AND DRESSING GOWN was not a terrible idea. It's not quite as bad as it sounds: our school was having its annual musical and my Mum was driving to school to pick up my sister, who had been doing backstage work... or something. Anyway, I went along for the ride and only decided to get out of the car on a whim... for some reason. Obviously I immediately ran into a huge number of my classmates who, strangely enough, did not spontaneously forget this fact by the following day. Never overburdened by popularity I was unwilling to make the jump to fully fledged social outcast. And so I lied. Or rather I denied. It went something like this.

CLASSMATE: Why were you at school in your dressing gown?

ME: (Casually eating an apple as though to demonstrate just how ludicrous such a suggestion is) I wasn't.

CLASSMATE: But I saw you.

ME: (Chewing ponderously) No you didn't.

CLASSMATE: Yeah I did. So did other people.

ME: (Now starting to run out of apple) No they didn't.

CLASSMATE: We all did.

ME: I think not.

I wasn't entirely successful. (Marlon Brando I was not - I was more like... Tom Brando). But as a strategy the idea that you could simply deny something, just will it out of existence, was very appealing and I never forgot it (just as I assume certain classmates never forgot the sight of me in my Noel Coward dressing gown and pajama pants racing across the carpark, the over-long cord of my dressing gown trailing behind me to give the impression I was enjoying a spot of nighttime kite flying).

With this in mind, let's take another quick look back at how Wooster might have fared had he failed on The Lindsay Principle but remembered to deny, deny, deny.

1. Wooster did retrieve a pair of his girlfriend's knickers from her laundry basket.
2. He did sniff them.
3. He did leave the knickers on the bed.
4. He was caught.
5. The following scene ensued.

GIRLFRIEND: Wooster, uh why is there a pair of knickers on my bed?

WOOSTER: (Also eating an apple in the misguided belief that it makes him appear nonchalant) I don't know.

GIRLFRIEND: I put them in the laundry this morning.

WOOSTER: (Smacking his lips) Oh really?

GIRLFRIEND: Yes really. Did you take them out?

WOOSTER: No.

GIRLFRIEND: So how did they get on the bed?

WOOSTER: (Chewing a bit faster) I don't know.

GIRLFRIEND: Well, if I didn't do it then who else do you think took them out of the laundry and put them on the bed? On your side of the bed? Any thoughts?

WOOSTER: (Taking increasingly big bites of the apple) Nope.

GIRLFRIEND: I know it was you!

WOOSTER: (Mouth full of apple) Fjkdfkjdfkljf

GIRLFRIEND: What?

WOOSTER (Mouth really very very full of apple): dfskjsdflkjdsf

GIRLFRIEND: WHAT?!

WOOSTER: (Barely intelligible among all the apple) I'm... choking.

Because this is the second great piece of relationship advice everyone should know: that when you paint yourself into a corner and there is absolutely no other way out, having tried but failed to deploy The Lindsay Principle and a generous serve of denial, it is perfectly acceptable to fake a near death experience, provided that you at no point allow an ambulance to be called. We're calling this The Wooster Principle and I hope for all of your sakes, dear readers, that you never need to use it.



POSTSCRIPT: My charming boyfriend would like me to point out to those who know us that "Wooster" is not him. I do so gladly, though I may say he is welcome to sniff my knickers if he cares to. I also add that, although this story is real, Wooster is not his real name, though it would be a good one.

Happy drinking: 8 Perth Pubs in 3 hours

Let me say first, that this binge is For Work*. The fact that I'm blogging about it is just for fun and possibly to pass onto my doctor when my liver ultimately explodes.

11.37am: Waiting for my pick-up, thinking that 11.37am seems like a very early time to start drinking. This realisation is, I think, a good thing, because it clearly proves I am not an alcoholic.

1.50pm: Bartender at MUST bar in Beaufort Street is impossibly dreamy. Looks like some sort of Spanish prince, speaks like an English public school boy. Also knows what he is talking about. Feel like a prick for leaving half my wine but important to conserve stamina.

1.55pm: Despite efforts to preserve stamina am feeling distinctly squiffy. Wish had eaten more than chocolate croissant today.

2.14pm: Hotel Northbridge still most depressing pub in Perth. Good to know. Oh and sorry to nice dude with a ponytail at Briabane. The wine was delicious - I was just in a hurry.

2.50pm: Asking bartenders for alcohol content in wine = a new low. There is simply no good explanation for doing so. Honeyuckle accented win at the Merchant on Beaufort Street FTW.

3.30pm: Blerg! Good bread at The Suite, I must say. Guy behind the bar super suspicious about what we are doing here though. Like the look of Lindsay's prosecco but my... whatever is quite delicious.

3.40pm: Chocolate brownie!

5.29pm: Drinking in the afternoon is awesome and all but the evening booze blues is the worst.

8pm: Snoozed in car for half hour, make small talk at book launch, half asleep on the couch already. Result.



* Actually for someone else's work but it's practically the same thing.