the nomness

So if I’m celebrating all things Irish (and by things I mean menfolk, and by celebrating I mean thinking-naughty-thoughts-about), sooner or later I’ll have to deal with the U2 question, so why not now. U2 is an outrageously good band, but a band that has remained completely asexual in my head. I take the band almost entirely as a single functioning unit from Bono’s bug-eye glasses to The Edge’s perma-beanie, to Adam’s and Larry’s appropriate instruments. Whichever they happen to be. And yes I had to look up the other two dudes.

However, I consider my complete ignorance of the inner workings of U2 to be the biggest compliment I can give them and their music. I could truly give two shits about them as people (and this is a compliment how?), but I have seen them in concert and cried those kinds of tears that squeak out of your surprised head while you sit there wondering if you’ve recently come to a sudden stop. One takes stock of the situation…am I injured? Am I sad? Intriguing, I should really be HOLYSHIT they’re playing City of Blinding Lights and now I’ve got goosebumps and need to go cry some more.

Aaand scene.

So I did a bit of research into U2 earlier today and learned that I did know a bit about them personally. I knew I liked that little beanie-headed bastid. How did I come to separate him from the out of focus guys behind bug-eyes?

Specifically, that little shrug at 3:36 after he gets the roses thrown at him. It’s funny what the nombrain will notice. I remember this song when it came out and I remember seeing the video, but until earlier today I really couldn’t place why I remembered it. Turns out, The Edge is a bit of cutie pie. Who knew? Presumably Mrs. Edge but certainly few others would delve beyond the idiocy of that name and who could blame them.

HOWEVER.

The man can play some damn guitar. And this is what strikes me as rather curious about U2 as a whole: they don’t seem an overly or overtly sexual band. They can rock the shit, they can certainly put out the babymaking tunes, but I’ve honestly never thought nekkid thoughts of any of them. Not even beanie. Not even NOW, when TRYING. This freaks me out a little because I will crush on anyone at the drop of a hat. Or beanie. Maybe that’s it, who knows. It’s weirding me out though, and it’s making me wonder if anyone else actually sees anyone in the band as the hottest thing since sliced mancake.

For instance, I’m seeing It Might Get Loud later this afternoon. Three guitar gods in a few different rooms, doing what comes naturally to them. I’m premagining some hot Page on White licks, some bold strokes from White back to Page, and all while The Edge watches on the sidelines, fiddling with his knobs. Jack White is teh sex. Jimmy Page is TEH SEX. The Edge is an awfully cute cutie pie who doesn’t seem to mind feet in his face. Curious. Maybe I’ll come out of the film with a better and more lustful appreciation for the man. I hope so; otherwise I’ll feel bad for just liking the music.

In the meantime (and HOLYSHIT I just typo’d ‘mantime’), I offer this selection of pictures of The Edge. Also, seriously….wtf’s with that name? Do people call him Edge for short? If this film answers anything it better goddamn well answer that.

“Liam Neeson, quite frankly, is sex on legs. Always has been.” Halle-bloody-Irish-lujah. (btw…say irish-lulah outloud, like right now. awesome) Somehow I do not remember him from Husbands and Wives (one of my favorite of Allen’s more serious ones), but IMDB tells me he’s in it. No, it took Schindler’s List to bring him to the forefront of my loins (not to mention Ralph Fiennes), because nothing says sexpot like a good man trying to do good. Actually, plenty of other things do, and quite often those things will not involve genocide. Maybe I should get out more. Or, fuck it, cut to the pictures (starting of course with the requisite smoky one).

I don’t even know what this next one is from, or why hot men who have been beaten look even hotter (even when it might not be obvious that they’re saying “you should’ve seen the other guy”), unless it’s to imagine the inevitable scene where he whips ten shades of shit back to the punter who dared think of escaping unscathed. Yeaahhh, that’s probably it.

I am a stupid fan of the movie Love Actually. I say this with no shame, because the movie is funny and hokey and Christmas-y and British and heartening and there’s just really no fucking way I’d be able to not be a fan. If I’m ever feeling bad I can watch this movie and it will actually make me feel better. This is absurd and the fact of it makes me cringe in all my other 2000 parts, but it is a fact. I like to think that FutureMan will find this one of my more endearing qualities, and he’ll laugh quietly as I’m quivering with barely contained tearful joy at the little boy running all over the damn airport.

And here’s where I bring it all back around to the man in question (because I KNOW I’ve lost you now). Obviously he’s in his movie (and how hard it must’ve been for Emma Thompson to act brotherly toward one she would rather be jumping. I love Emma Thompson; she really is *that* good an actor). He’s beautiful, but I think my favorite parts of his character are the ones involving him and his stepson and usually the dads don’t do it for me. Men at a dad age or beyond, fuck yes. But dads themselves? Not really. They aren’t specifically unattractive, but they’re not specifically attractive either, when in dad mode. But I want to jump Liam Neeson when he calls his stepson a wee motherless mongrel, and I want to jump him when he recounts to the boy how he and Claudia Schiffer would have to have sex in every room of the house including his. I’m sure there’s something not entirely healthy in these admissions, but fuck it. The film is not searching for any deep dark human secrets and neither am I. I’m just enjoying the Christmas candy, and my GOD there’s a lot of it there. [Effbit, we HAVE to do an entire post just on LA. It. Must. Happen]

So, to summarize (oh god, I almost spelled this with two S’s) (this makes me inordinently happy).

The man looks good with his clothes on.

The man looks good with his clothes off.

The man just looks fucking GOOD.

And Emma Thompson knows it, and respects it. She’s part of our club (though of course if she ever were, we would absolutely have jackets made up celebrating the fact) (Emma, kidding, we’d be totally chill, I swear).

I figured it’s only right to start with a controversial choice. Peter O’Toole is, quite possibly, not even Irish. Perfect; this is the sort of Irish I can ease into. Ahem…

A lot of my noms are of the black & white variety and you just can’t deny what some men look like sans color information. Especially men with silly blue twinkly eyes and crazy good acting chops. Can you imagine a world where Lawrence of Arabia is a leading man’s first film role?

And in fitting nomness fashion, he has spent his entire professional life playing the role of rapscallion and raconteur. A famous drunk (one of the few legends still living), he has turned down a knighthood, raised a ruckus when bestowed with an honorary Oscar a few years back (he should’ve won for Lawrence, although if you’re gonna lose then placing second to Peck in Mockingbird is fair enough), and can still bring the acting pain (witness Venus). And of course, there’s the whole smoking hot thing.

So Effbit has all eff’d back to the motherland for a wedding. The fact that neither of us is in NYC right now is making me crazy even though I obviously have no purchase with which to cause a ruckus. Still…with my crazy recent britfest (now entering the Netflix TV mini-series phase), if I can’t be in NY then I’d just as soon be in Britain or right across the small pond from it and DAMMIT that’s where she is. Crazy Irish. She best get her ass back to town soon because she’s gonna owe you people MAAAD posts. On the other hand, she could scoop up a sweet accent man for me if she works it right so maybe she should take her sweet time. I told her to be fearless in interviewing men she meets; she already vets people for me, so it’s really only a simple step further to record some liltingly dulcet tones. Yummmmm.

So, in honor of Effbit’s trip (where she better not be having too much fun), I will be posting under a theme. She was complaining that I never seemed to fancy her countrymen so for the next two weeks I plan to offer a selection of hawt Irish. Not sure if I’ll run out early or not (KIDDING) (I think?), but consider this the gauntlet having been thrown and picked up again because you really shouldn’t leave that sort of thing just sitting around because that’s how wars get started and Great Britain will get the blame, I just know it.

Slash is a funny mistress.

Now do you see what I did there? I was both being funny and also deadly serious (and yes I am still ROLLING with this show). Personal tendencies aside, boys interested in other boys is kind of ok in my book. As long as one of them isn’t my boy then we’re all fine. Although….right, nevermind, staying focused. RIGHT.

Effbit was at the gym last week because she occasionally has bouts of spastic mental behavior (I mean, jesus, what other reason can there be?), and I don’t want to be rude and point & laugh at the Irish trying to run (in training for the bar marathon perhaps), but sometimes it needs to be done. When I’m not in town I can typically get this business taken care of via text, and I quite often take advantage of this mobile slag device to stay up to speed. Last week I was thrown for a wee loop when Effbit texted a song and video premise. DURING GYM TIME. Honestly, I can barely breathe when I’m running let alone text, but our Effbit’s got spirit (how about you?). She wrote, and I quote, “GODDAMN IT. DRAMARAMA ANYTHING HOUSE AND WILSON.” My first thought was to immediately kick in with the “seriously, what’s with the yelling, I can hear you fine from here ya british piece of crap.” Then I realized I really am all about the Brits lately and I’d only be harming any future opportunities I may have to bone one. I decided to respond with the far more appropriate, “HOLY SHIT. This might happen today. I’m starting in 1hr.” We’re both rather loquacious texty bitches, what.

It takes a while to prep video when you are easily sidetracked looking at fucking beautiful men making goo goo eyes at one another but we persevered and now, in honor of the Season 5 release of House on DVD, we offer our third video. It’s way better than the others, and I still really REALLY like that Boss Snape one. Like, really. It makes me laugh, and I don’t care how corny it is to still laugh at your own work. This video doesn’t make me laugh; instead, it makes me think naughty things about Hugh Laurie. But then again, what doesn’t… To be fair, I could make a case for House pulling goo goo eyes with any number of people of both genders, and that’s perfectly fine by me.

Classic monster movies are the greatest. Maybe not on the scary front, but on the AWESOME!!!1!!1! front, and in that vein The Wolfman is out February 2010. It’s a fair guess that if you’ll nom anyone in this film it’ll be Benicio, but my ears are glued to Anthony Hopkins. Always have been, always will be. I know I tend to crush older but christ, 71 is getting pretty ridiculous. Only problem is….the pretty part. Because he is. I’m the twisted sod who saw The Silence Of The Lambs three times in the theater and got the jumpy tum every single time. Buffalo Bill was a creepy motherfucker and that was one of the SCARIEST scary movies I’ve ever seen, but it still couldn’t kill the Lecter nom. The character may have became a camp joke in later novels and even more so in the subsequent films, but SOTL is perfection and feeds my constant enthusiasm for a new Hopkins movie. Even when he looks like a twisted Orson Welles (and there’ll be words about Orson’s nomness sometime soon).

Because once upon a long while ago, he looked like this:

I feel I should post just this one screengrab and have that say it all for my review of Local Hero. It’s certainly the impetus for finding the film in the first place, although it’s not the only thing I came away with. The face Oldsen pulls, softly bouncing on the balls of his feet as he’s watching Marina walk away for the first time, almost reigns me in from wanting to jump his awkward flailing bones. Almost.

Then of course, I gather myself and envision this fantasy.

I want more please, kthxbai. Now I’m going to have to get into Doctor Who, and Torchwood, and…what else…Fortysomething again? I predict a vicious Laurie-Capaldi circle in my immediate future, and I’m kinda ok with that.

I am so excited to see this film that I squee.  Audibly.  To the great distress of my cat, or sometimes the unfortunate person I am talking to on the phone.  This morning it was my aunt.

Why this film is applicable to this site goes without saying, ob……..(wait for it)…..viously.  THIS should be amazing visually (heh) and the story is actually a good one.  The casting directors are now on my Christmas card list, and I will think fondly of them in my evening prayers (or would if I still did that.  I may once this week just for Irene Lamb and Maureen Webb.  Thank you, ladies.)

I found a pic of Johnny's bum that I was considering putting here, but it made me feel dirty, like looking at someone I know. Weird, huh.

I think I’ve voiced my Johnny Depp stance before, but just in case I haven’t, or in case you’ve missed it, I LOVE the man.  I do not lust after him post Sweeney Todd Premiere.  Laymee and I attended the afterparty and he held the door for me as I was going out for a cigarette when I discovered, to my great dismay, that in heels, I am considerably taller than him.  He is SO fucking talented that I WANT to lust after him.  But height aside, I cannot.  I find him pretty.  In the way that I find one of my cousins pretty.  And that kind of eeks me.  So, Johnny, if you’re out there, let’s go for a pint.  Or a glass of wine.  It’s not you, it’s me.  I hope that we can be friends.  I think that you and I could have a very good, late night discussion about what we consider to be very important worldly things over a copious amount of alcohol.

Jude, you're lovely. And I don't even normally like blondes. Way to be hot.

Jude Law.  Hello, you.  I don’t know why, but I DO find myself attracted to you.  In a frantic last minute shopping trip some 4 or 5 years ago Christmas Eve or somewhere there abouts, I very nearly knocked you over while you were queuing in FAO Schwartz.  Sorry about that. I may have cursed at you.  You have children, I’m sure you understand.  Up to that point I really didn’t think much about you when I’d watch your films, but there was something about the way you saved the Steif frog/monkey/bear/whatever it was I was carrying from being trampled in the Christmas rush that just begged for me to fancy you, at least a little.  So I did.  And I do.

You have earned your place in The Hall of Nom, Heath. Cheers.

Heath Ledger, I’m not going to get sappy on you here, but damn, you were a fine bit of stuff.  And EXTRAORDINARILY talented.  I refuse to get maudlin, but hats off to you, babes.  Will go see whatever is released posthumously.  I am happy to throw my $12 into the kitty if only for you.

Dia duit ar maidin, Colin. How's about some coffee?

Ooooooooooh, Colin Farrell.  We’ve had a love/hate relationship haven’t we?  Cell Phone?  Or whatever that shit was?  ORLY?  Let’s not.  Gentle readers, let me give you a little insight on the Irish. We can be a nation of begrudgers.  Amongst ourselves, we will not acknowledge the successes of fellow countryman.  In Dublin, you could have half the cast of Fair City in the M&S on Grafton and the Dubs won’t bat an eyelash. (nor should they – I seriously saw that one chick…her name escapes me, but she’s a real smug bitch in interviews, anyway, but she was looking around waiting to be recognised.  My wouldbe MIL has seen the same.  Blech.)  Mention one of our own if you are NOT from Ireland, though, and boy, you have called the wrath of “what the fuck has your country REALLY contributed to the world of the arts ANYWAY” upon you so fast that you won’t even notice we’re going below the belt with attacks on your imperialistic histories and your arrogant attitudes without really having any true identities of your own – trust me, I’ve seen it happen.

Anyway, getting back on point, Colin, I’ve been very proud of you, of late.  You are blessed in the physical nom, that’s granted.  Dunno what it is, but I’ve always gone a little dreamy eyed at you.  Wouldn’t admit it, though, around all audiences, no sir.  I’m impressed with your more recent work and am hoping that you keep along this vein! Apparently, staying on the straight and narrow suits.  Also, should the rumours be true, congrats on your second bun in the oven? (Don’t mind me over here lusting over 2 time babydaddy…it’s what I do.  Men and babies kinda do it for me for some reason.  Blame my ovaries)

I saw In The Loop over the weekend and I’m already dying for an extended 2-disc Blu-Ray release. In a useless attempt to avoid my mind’s oversaturation of this beautiful, beautiful character, I am instead choosing to focus on Peter Capaldi’s body of work. Heh. Local Hero arrives tomorrow, I’ve already bought the soundtrack, and quite frankly I’m looking forward to what I’ve read is one of the most charming films to come out of the 80’s. Not to mention a sweet young 20-something Capaldi in all his awkwardly running glory. Christ I love that man’s run. And hair. But not the sweet floppy young hair. The venomous grey cut. Effbit’s been on about the rpattz hair for a while now, but I think I finally understand how it’s possible to want to fuck follicles.

So here it is – the one bit of video I will let myself watch before this movie comes out on disc. I can think of five scenes just off the top of my head that I want to watch into the ground and I’m crafty enough to find this film out there somewhere, but I am restraining. If this montage doesn’t make you run right out to see this film, well then God, Jed, I don’t even want to know you.

Long in the works, we now present the second Nomness video, inspired either by Bella’s inability to believe anyone actually wants to have anything to do with her *or* by Kristen Stewart’s jonesing for another fix.  You be the judge.