the nomness

Let’s open with a little “True Blood” today, shall we?

HOT, Bill Compton. Oh NOM. But WTF with the “Sookie”?

As I type, I have Laymee on the couch next to me watching TB. She has to catch up with this season. The weekend was brilliant – Laymee’s return to the city. Her homecoming. BBQs, Bday parties, and silliness. And now the fave chinese food and vampires. Just have to make sure I don’t snarf my moo shu pork. “Sookie”. We’re spending the day playing with the blog – so if you folks have any suggestions, recommendations, etc, please don’t hesitate to speak up.

We consider THIS the breakfast of champions - primarily because we don't have to get off our arses to enjoy it. God Bless Brooklyn.

I may post more in a bit, but I am completely distracted by scallion pancakes.

"Effbit, Laymee....why are you blogging when you could be self medicating with Chinese food?!"

For a little while, Laymee is coming back to visit, so, and please, pay attention, not only will we be in the same state again but we will be in the same state at the same time as Rpattz and Alan Rickman (wait, he will be here through the weekend, won’t he? I mean, it’s NYC, forchristsake). This may be problematic, as, dear readers, very few people outside our circle of “two” know about our…um….hobby. And those few people would be unwilling to post bail, if we were to, say, approach either of these very polite and respectful men with services of the questionable variety. So yeah, please keep your eyes peeled on all fangirl blogs for the next week and a half or so for pictures of 2 stunning and eloquently spoken women pleading their case in NY1 interviews as most certainly NOT prostitutes. While we are not those fancunts of tacky fame (dem bitches have BAD hair and please. Abercrombie. As if. Ahem.) it is a distinct possibility that we may celebrate Laymee’s return to our fair city and run into a booze-appreciative-minding gentleman of nom variety and let loose with the offers.

Oh, Jackson? You want to meet us for a pint, what? Well SURE! Weather will be GORGEOUS this weekend, no need for that leather hat. Or wear it, but forfeit your shirt. Would hate for you to overheat...

So this is going to be a jam-packed little while and we’re hoping that good things can come from this blog while we are in one place. Again, I’m all childish giddy. So much so that I have to distract myself with going to Bruno this evening and having a jar or two after.

Now. Stuart Townsend. Oh Stuart Townsend. Today I saw you, Stewie (I can call you that, right?) in “Queen of the Damned”. Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Don’t judge, Effbit”. And yes. You have a point. But we both know that that’s not going to happen. I judge, that’s what I do. Please let me relay what little I’ve learned since my undead curiosity has been reignited by Twilight.

Stuart. Vampires don't wear skirts, silly. They sparkle.

I have NO IDEA why I love this badly written series. I LOVE THE MENS, though. OH, nomability factor is HIGH in the film. And deep down, I am actually a romantic. A masochistic idealist. Ridiculous, isn’t it? This vampire thing is FANTASTIC fodder for nomness as vampires are all about sex. I don’t care what you say, unless you’re mormon, you KNOW they scream the sex. Silently. With their eyes.

…..or at least what MTV once was. You know, the common, Gen X lament that there is no more Music Television, just crap “original” programming.

THANK GOD there were musicians/directors/producers who had the presence of mind to include the nomness in their artistic expression. Those girls, those Alicia Silverstones, Liv Tylers, Christina Riccis….they are lovely, they are hot, but they are decidedly NOT the nomness.

Kate Bush – Experiment IV

Laymee mentioned earlier today that Hugh Laurie gave a great performance in “Walking on Broken Glass”.  But does anyone remember his mad scientist fella in Kate Bush’s “Experiment IV”?  Of course not, CUZ HE DIES.  And yeah, the song isn’t quite my cup o’tea either.  Sorry, Kate, this one just doesn’t do it for me.

I’m not gonna lie to you, ladies, I am not the biggest Lady Gaga fan.  Her music doesn’t do much for me. It’s sort of “meh” (any of you who read Brooklyn Vegan should nod at this reference).  I appreciate effort.  But REALLY.  Rein it in a little, woman.  What are you going to have to throw out there when you’re in your 50s and facing Madonna’s mostly naked and terrifyingly veined conundrum? This being said. HELLO ALEXANDER SKARSGARD. You die too in this video, but there is plenty of alive and smooching for you to enjoy. And we do enjoy it.

WHO can deny Walken? I mean, I don’t know, it’s just Walken. Maybe not conventionally nomable, maybe you would just want a beer with the guy, but there is SOMETHING about him, and he’s got the moves in this vid. What’s not to love.

Robert Carlisle. You nom-ed him in “The Full Monty”. You may have nom-ed him in “Angela’s Ashes” (I will explain later why i HATE that book, probably…..I do not endorse anything Frank McCourt does and most of the county HATES him as well). Did you nom him in “Plunkett and Macleane”? I did. And then, of course, there was “28 Weeks Later”.

And Finally….

OF COURSE I’m giving this post my own brand of Happy Ending. He DANCES. BEAUTIFUL limbs. And if you squint, the chick COULD be me, like, 10 yrs ago, considerably shorter…..it’s amazing how alike dark brunettes with pasty white skin can look. Such a good video. Oh. My.

In related news.

The Harry Potter Half Blood Prince Premiere will be in NYC, and I won’t be there. I have an uncanny ability to blag my way into where I want to be. Combine this with an unwillingness to believe that I’m incapable of anything (arrogance and pigheadedness are cruel masters of my dignity) I have had several “near” run-ins with Alan Rickman. Been to several premieres where we COULD have met. I swear to all that is holy that at the Bottle Shock premiere we met eyes and had a MOMENT when he was walking down the aisle at the beginning of the film. I was very close the other day when, come to find out, a friend’s friend is being flown in to do his makeup for the do. Naturally I offered any and all services. I would hold the brushes. I would wash the brushes. I would bloody well buy new brushes for each, ahem, stroke so that there would not be double dipping. Heh. Anyway. No, it appears it is not meant to be. Pity. Though honestly, it’s probably for the best – who knows what we would expose those innocent, wide-eyed attendees of this particular premiere to when all sense finally gives way to passion.

And to think that, as recently as lunch, I considered myself to be quite a high authority on Hugh Laurie’s work. Pshaw and for shame, I was living a lie. Honestly, how else am I to explain how I did NOT recognize Hugh Laurie in the video for Annie Lennox’s “Walking On Broken Glass.” Shocking. I find myself shocked and completely unable to do much apart from click play again. And again. Oh, and once more.

The good folks at Sony BMG won’t allow embedding of the video but I’m here to provide visual proof of the greatest half second of music video footage I’ve seen grace my screen in a good many years, to be followed by video linkage. If you make it that far. Gahh. To set the scene, it would appear Ms. Lennox has had one too many and husband Mr. Laurie is intimating as much across the party.

And then of course, the video itself (also featuring Malkovich!). The above is found around 3:13 and is even better in motion. Enjoy, nommers.

In a fevered moment of inspiration, I’d like to present the following, sure to be the first of many such bits quizzes. I daresay this might be the easiest one so enjoy it while it lasts; when elbows roll around I won’t be nearly so forgiving.

So this one doesn’t do the same thing for my gym work out as the Faster Kill Pussycat (thank you, Twitarded), but it is so much tasty Pattz that I would be remiss not to include it.

Now. The title of my posting. I don’t plan on writing much about social events, I won’t touch on my political/religious/ethical views on anything truly important – or at least I don’t think I will (remember, this blog is going to be completely organic, and I’m pretty confident that the flow of man-worship, and booze, will keep us on target) It REALLY isn’t that I’m being disrespectful – I truly am not. As I watched part of it on CNN, Laymee told me, repeatedly, to turn it off, because I was getting alternately angry/sad/and nostalgic while watching it. It is relative to our common interests only because I needed to do something after switching it off (thank you, Al Sharpton, for leaving a foul taste in my mouth, and thank you, CNN and the world, for making the grieving of family and friends a public spectacle, and THANK YOU, Jackson family, for undoing the many years of hiding MJ’s kids from prying eyes by serving them to the world in the midst of their pain and mourning……breathe…and continue) to calm my crazy ass down, and Laymee, in her vast wisdom, suggested a sorbet, a palate cleanser, if you will, of the Mr. Rickman variety.

And this, ladies, is the AABA eyefuck. Enjoy.

An Awfully Big Adventure. Those four words. Learn them. Live them. Love them. What he can do with those eyebrows, with his eyes, and YES, with his hands (oh yeah, and him on a motorcycle? THIGHS, ladies, you see THIGHS) is criminal.

I find myself refreshed and revitalized.  I am going to a quiz thing this evening with a heart that is less heavy, and a need for Nom that is, for now, sated.  Now the only thing I have to do is avoid any bloody media between now and bedtime.  And I think you know what that means, ladies…….

A bar with no television.

Right.  So, I’ve been having trouble concentrating on work today.  This is usually (not) an issue but last night I got caught up on House.  I should mention that I’ve only ever seen one episode live on TV; every other episode has been watched via DVD.  Commercials make me mental and don’t allow for nearly as much pausing and replaying of scenes as I quickly determined would be necessary.

5 minutes into the second episode of Season 4, forced onto me by an old young friend who (I believe) has the hots for Chase, I was done.  I wanted to stop watching so that I could get all caught up and understand exactly who everyone was and what all was going on.  WHO in the HELL was this dude and why had he not been forced upon me earlier?  Or since.  Repeatedly. Perhaps involving a wall.  What.

I then proceeded to seek out everything Hugh Laurie had ever produced.  Thank god for Netflix because I rocked through some serious British comedy series, classics that I’d always intended to watch but had never gotten around to, Blackadder chief amongst them.  Jeeves & Wooster was hands down my favorite, and is next in line to be purchased.  It took a half minute to acclimate to the English accent and since I wasn’t watching House regularly yet, I became all swoony for Mr. Laurie.  I’d been swoony for Mr. Fry’s words for years and years so he was a lovely addition and cemented my decision to go nuts for another tall one.

Having viewed/read/heard damn near everything the man has produced, I have to say – my deep and abiding lust begins and ends with House.  That character does many more things to my brain than Mr. Laurie by himself.  And this is as it should be.  I’m not fond of lusting after husbands.  I’ve done it, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not too terribly content with it.  House, on the other hand, and we’ll just leave the whole fictional element out of it for now, is totally up for grabs.  I’ve never had a thing for a specific eye color but godDAMN the gaze he can pull from those blues.  The confidence, the ego, the clavicles, the ability to flirt with anything on legs (and occasionally not).  The tortured genius thing to an extent, but really it’s everything else.  I ship House with Cuddy, I ship him with Wilson, I ship him with a career seaman and anyone else who might actually give him some, and will let me watch comfortably in slo-mo from my couch.  If this show had been on when I was 12, I would have studied medicine.  And the sad thing is, even now I still would.

So, yeah.  Last night’s episodes.  I read the forums but avoid spoilers like lupus.  I knew the basics of the Season 4 ending but not a lot of the specifics.  This has worked well because last night blew me away. I know the same amount about Season 5’s ending* but will have to wait til the DVD release in August, so now I’m back to rewatching from the beginning.  This was my first go through the entire series and I didn’t want it to be up to date.  I had to check with Effbit last night, to see if I should finish off Season 4 or start over from the beginning to lesson the pain of having to wait for S5.  Now I can stroll through the pretty all over again.

*and this will be the killer because, if i were prone to vidding (and i think i might have to do a couple of them to get it out of my system), i KNOW there’s good stuff a-comin’.  gaaahhhhh….

Gentle readers,

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.

q6gap2munf

Lately when I find myself appreciating the male form (lately like 42 seconds ago), I seem to be focusing in on any number of specific parts. You’ve got the starters of course – eyes, mouth, hands – but lately the bench has been bringing the real heat.

Aside – truly, you must forgive the sports metaphors; the combination of moving to a sports-heavy town and signing up for a family-requested cable package [heh] has me experiencing what can only be considered a very brief but passionate interest in professional athletes and their trades. However, rest assured they are far too pretty on a far too regular basis to be honestly nommable, as Mr. Federer’s legs and pecs will testify.
/Aside

……distracted….where was I? Ah yes, the pieces and bits, the third handful’s offering of 2000 parts, the parts you keep busy with while the other parts are keeping busy. I’m talkin’ collarbones, I’m talkin’ those upper rib muscles, the triceps as it connects to the elbow (can’t wait for football season) (what?), the gumdrop earlobes, and #1 fanfic favorite por vida, the sternocleidomastoid. I’m not talking about House’s eyes, although rest assured I WILL be talking IN LENGTH about Mr. Laurie’s eyes (aaand now i need a minute). It’s not his eyes; it’s what he can do with his eyebrows that make me think stupid. It’s the shape of Mr. Rickman’s mouth AND the fact that it’s rarely closed. It’s Mr. Macy’s infuriatingly perfect diction and Mr. Martin’s jawline.

I had the thought to photoshop a frankenstein dreamboat made of various perfect parts but knew that would turn into a Saul Bass one-sheet of epic disaster likely reaching Transformerian proportions. Also, the diction thing kinda threw me. Going against everything Michael Bay was ever exposed to, in lieu of showing you examples of the pretty I quite hope to think you’ll sit quietly and dream of them, perhaps even better my list with one of your own. What else are holidays for…friends & family? Fuck ‘em, let them find their own list. Let your imagination wander, dear reader.

Should you find yourself in need of further inspiration, or perhaps a most serious buzzkill (I find the two often go hand in hand, and often with liquor), check Glengarry Glen Ross for an early bar scene between Pacino and Pryce in which Ricky Roma extolls the virtues of remembering the details. And then watch what his eyes do as he’s remembering what her eyes did.

As I’m currently in the midst of tweaking the design elements of the site and need more body copy with which to work, I thought I’d introduce myself. I’m Laymee, and I am. BUT SERIOUSLY…it’s a good thing we started this site because the iChat logs were getting to be rigoddamndiculous. Beautiful, but lengthy. Ahem. I think it’s safe to say our BFF status was well and truly cemented under the watchful gaze, gentle hands, and, of the UTMOST importance, vocal stylings of one Mr. Alan [Sidney Patrick] Rickman. And no I didn’t need to google his name. THAT is dedication, people. And this, my friends, IS the nomness.