It’s been a while since I’ve done an “oh shit, it’s the day after and I’m still rocking a decent buzz” post, so here goes. I find I’m most creative when I am not particularly focused on any one thing. And this was really a 4 day bender, so let me throw that out there as well.

I met my first online type person Thursday.  Was a fabulous time. Many, many, many bevvies of the boozy variety were had, and I wasn’t hacked up in little pieces.  All in all a success, in spite of the psycho Norman Bates-type who followed us from Sweetwater to Diamond, and then, in his drunken mumble-speak, asked if I would like to “go hang out.”  Like then and there.  He wanted the Effbit, and it was uncomfortable and awkward.  I may have laughed.  In his face.  Yes yes yes, I am kinda bitchy.  We know this.  Anyway, the experience was overall a pleasant one and is definitely opening the door for other meet ups – Jordan, of KSWI fame, I’m looking at you.  I’m staring down my eurasian nose at you.  Seriously.  We can make this happen.  I mean hell, I posted that dog-sports player thing last week.  That’s gotta count for something.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand, I took a blog break.  And I’m sober.  Huh.  Look at that.

I like me a literate man. Also, mildly obsessive and a little emo. What.

Fear not, loyal reader(s), it is Monday. I will go and have sushi and possibly some japanese beer.  Or sake.  Or both.  Followed by a sangria.  The possibilities are endless.  As is, I’m discovering, my interest in younger men.

I'm really ok with this smirk. I'm also discovering, after last night's charming bartender, that I have a soft spot for a lilting southern accent. I am ok with this too.

Very often we have an image of ourselves that isn’t necessarily projected to the outside world. Not all of us, mind, but some of us. Take for example my friend’s friend, let’s call her Emma. Emma gives the impression of being of the All American Fantasy Doll. She’s blonde. She’s blue-eyed. She’s a lovely figure. She has beautiful teeth (these may not be a god-given gift, but we’ll go with it). She smiles at the right times. She’s able to keep it in her pants when it comes to silliness or flightiness. What you don’t know, about Emma, is that she has a DARK DARK DARK sense of humour. I have found myself liking her more and more of late – apparently this side of her doesn’t come out unless she’s comfortable with you.

Which brings me to my point. We, the thinking women of the media-heavy generation, for the most part, have a Dark Nom. These don’t necessarily HAVE to be sinister.  Some people include my dear Alan as their Dark Nom (when your nom is along the lines of Matthew McConaughey I can see this point, I guess – but not really.  Matthew McConaughey makes my ovaries die slowly and painfully, so, then there’s that).  I’m going to venture to include another “darker” character, very often idolized by those denizens of dark places: the goths.  Enter, Neil Gaiman.

He writes. He writes darker fantasy. Lord knows I have darker fantasies.

I’m going to be careful about what I say about Neil.  He has a hyper-public relationship with one Amanda Palmer.  I admire her goodself in her own right – I challenge you not to love “Who Killed Amanda Palmer.”  It’s a brilliant album, and I’m sure the book is quite phenomenal as well.  I have not been able to bring myself to read it, however.  My voyeurism does have its limits.  You see, Neil wrote each story to a collection of photographs of a “dead” Amanda Palmer.  The collaboration is too much after the tweets.  And the blogs.  And the You Tube videos I watch – while my voyeurism has limits, it is still, after all, voyeurism.  So, Neil, I fancy the pants and the pen off of you, but I am going to have to throw this one on the back burner.

And then, of course, there is that vampire thing.  The wave that’s hit the hormones of hundreds of thousands, dare I say millions???, of ladyfolk around the world.  There always was the sensuality of the classic vampire.  It has lain latent until recently, when pop media has picked it up and ran with it.

Dark dark dark.  Am I complaining?

No.  No, I don’t believe I am.

Toby.

I will back my words up in a future post in an attempt to convince anyone else that Richard Schiff is a sexy motherfucker, but only when sporting facial hair. I KNOW I can make that final argument; it’s the earlier one that has previously earned me more than one cocked head of confusion (make your own damn dirty joke here, I’m too busy thinking of tobypr0n). And for the record, his RL wife teaches other ladies how to pole dance. Seriously. Sheila Kelley (nerdalert) is the one responsible for teaching Lisa Edelstein her Cuddy pole moves as seen at the end of Season 4 of House (/nerdalert), and is thus a personal hero of mine. THAT WAS SOME HOT SHIT RIGHT THERE. Daaaamn….but the point is…um…the point is gone, and Schiff must have some righteous moves of his own to bag that dame and I just want to see them, what…

What I mean by new old classics is the sense of….well, we have these classics, yeah? These fine specimens of manness and maleitude with HAIR and lines on their faces (for the most part anyway). And we pore over bites and bytes of a lot of the same poses or photoshoots (and yes, thank you Eff for linking all the dripping wet rpattz nomitude because fucking HELL that’s a pretty young hairy mannishboy), but it’s rare to come across (heh) a new pic that wasn’t shot, cropped and printed earlier that day. Damn you, age of immediate gratification!

To wit, I offer two pieces of evidence, from my and Effbit’s primary whipping men (oh, but for one night in bangkok).  First up, I’ve seen this pic a couple of times in the past but never had the thought to actually grab it for keepsies until Effbit rolled up the other day and was all, I WANT RICKMAN ON A BEACH NOW.  Then I was all, damn girl, calm.  Once I’d found the pic again, I remembered why she was in a state.

Christ on crutches, what’s a girl to do with THAT!?  I’d heard all English were deathly allergic to sunlight, or were just pissed at the outdoors because the sun has no appreciation for dry humor and isn’t that a kick in the head.  I’ve no idea of his age in this one but those bangs look as if they were dealt with by mummy not 4 hours earlier.  Early to mid 20s?  Jesus God, WANT.

All drooling aside (yeah right), the pic for my own interest is decided less graphic (and perhaps you’ll appreciate the typographical irony of that statement in a minute).  From the bowels of some bloke’s camera in 1981, I give you a registration board showing two lists of names of rowers.  Peep the Cambridge spare.

Sexy handwriting does something to my brain that is a glorious thing, although it can be quite surprising when it pops up at inopportune moments.  Like reading a map written and drawn by a babysittee’s father.  Bad to swerve violently while lusting after lower zone 4’s.

For anyone not in the know about Mr Laurie’s rowing career (and for me because I will look at manleg at the drop of a sock), please enjoy the following.  While brief, it’s still an eye-popping look at a 74.5″/194# 20-year-old piece with thighs to crack walnuts (and yes i’m holding those walnuts in my teeth).

Effbit, you called?

Laymee and I went to a very early dinner, and then imbibed (as we are want to do) on beer.  And wine.  Then, an hour before the screening, we meandered over to the cinema and planted our arses in the frontish (no other seats.)  I think I need a deep tissue massage today – old lady-types need at least the midsection of the theatre.  So today I am still mentally replaying scenes. I enjoyed the film, but, as Laymee and I discussed post-screening, I can see it being difficult to follow for someone who hadn’t read the books. And yes, we watched the other 5.  It’s amazing how different they are, and how, IMHO, Hermione pisses me off.  Even in this one.  I can’t even put my finger on it. Personally I think they should have worked on build-up to key points in the book. Like, say, maybe, the discovery of the HBP – the audience wasn’t even led to give a shit about who it was. Just that dude had some old book. And then at the end, when Snape announces “yeah, like, those spells? Yeah. That’s mine. Cuz I’m the Half Blood Prince. Word (quite literally ‘to your mother’).” And Ginny? We ALWAYS knew she got around. She’s my kinda girl. And yeah, hate me if you need to, but I don’t think she ages well! And’s she’s what, 18? This doesn’t bode well….All that being said, I walked away, still a little squee, and still feeling SO MUCH BETTER about Number 6 than I was after Number 5. Cuz Order of the Phoenix was not satisfying AT ALL  And while I can ALWAYS USE more Snape, i felt that he had considerably more face/voice time than he has in previous films…about time, really.

And segway to our cross-over

I think, though, that I have to revisit my other tween obsession.  Twilight has been sorely neglected, I feel.  I’ve been walking around daydreaming about some of this all day.  So it only stands to reason that I post it to share with you ladies.  Also, while I’m not one to beg for comments, reviews, or even validation – trust me, I’m retarded enough that I would prattle on to a mirror and feel just fine about it – we haven’t had one comment since Jenny Jerkface from www.twitarded.com on our very first post – so I’m a little nervous if others are actually ABLE to! (We see you, we know you’re reading!)

I did not write this weekend.  Why you ask?  Well I will tell you.  The (force) pull of vodka (and beer) is too strong with this one.  I think it is easier to blog while still drunk from the evening before.  And by evening before I mean the 1 pm bbq from the day before “before”.

“Oh Effbit”, you say.  “Your name should be “Funnybecauseshe’sdrunk”.  I wave my gay cocktail in your face and say “Shut it. Fuck you.  I hate your shoes.  But you’re right”.  And you are, totally and completely right.  So I ask you – do I perv on the boy-mans because I have a fondness for the booze?  Or do I booze because I am perving all the time and still maintaining an acceptable facade of  “doesn’t need to be arrested for indecent thoughts about the mens, but should definitely be kept a close eye on”?

So let me tell you fine folks why being an independent consultant rocks my proverbial socks…because I can have sangria after I wake and write my emails.  Because I can blog about the hotness between phonecalls.  And because I’m wearing what I wore yesterday.  I am lucky enough to roll out of my Brooklyn apt, call Laymee, and make her decide for me where I’m going to eat/drink/blog.  AND THEN get a new client.  While drinking sangria.  Jealous?

Another pitcher of Passionfruit Sangria, Table 4

I will admit, though I find myself awesome – and I do NOT use that word, I was shamed out of my apartment this morning when my cleaning lady came.  I say shamed because I woke at noon.  And I was shamed because goodgoddamnit, that lady was like the mother to me that I never had, and DOESN’T JUDGE ME when I am hungover/screaming “fuck the surcharge, I am NOT paying $4.29 to my mobile phone carrier for no stupid fucking reason” into said mobile phone, AND she brings me dominican food because for some reason she finds my disfunction endearing.  She scrubs under my stove and I barely managed to brush my teeth.  I have often found both Laymee and The Cat gazing disapprovingly at my post-lobodomy-patient form for these very reasons.

Why is it that at very-nearly-thirty-five I can barely keep my shit together you ask?  I wish I had a concrete answer.  I can only surmise that this may have something to do with it.

That little space, under the bottom lip and above the chin? Yeah, that's a chin divet, and I want to lick it.

I had to introduce the Pattz to Laymee under the caveat of “You kinda have to consider it lay-away.  In 10 years, that is going to be some damn-fine noshing.”  It’s taken a while, but methinks she’s come around.

We see eye to eye on a lot.  I bowed out gracefully on the Mr. Laurie dibs – Laymee is far too fanatical a lady to compete.  And she, using her good judgement, understands that should Mr. Rickman turn up and say “I am leaving the Rima, and I needs to be with one of you highly intelligent and hot bits of stuff” that she should take this as her cue to disappear cuz I will not hesitate to cut a bitch.  There are, of course, discrepancies.  There is some embarrassing shit in the vault.  I am not going to bring it up, but just know that it’s there.  Seriously, no fine Adam’s apple goes unnoticed – and if it’s attached to a fairly less-than-delectable ass?  So be it. (Ok.  The mental image of an Adam’s apple actually attached to an ass is killing me.  Normally I would delete that last bit in the name of “don’t confuse the readers” but fuck it.  I’m still laughing.  And I’m in a Columbian eatery drinking and blogging.)

So yeah.  I managed to fumble my way through a press release today.  I think.  I will likely have to rewrite it.  But I’m STILL able to toggle windows between actual work shit, boy-crush blogs, and Laymee’s iChat window.  Go me.  Today it’s Effbit 1, Layme -5.  Because I’ve got bananas in my sangria and she’s just got Schlitz.  Seriously.  And you can’t get drunk on that shit.  Virtual pub crawl is going to have to move now because it’s Monday and the poor Columbian lady wants to go home.  Nothing to see here, kids, move along.

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