CLASH OF THE TITANS IMDB


Sam Worthington in hopefully minimal clothing ... hells yeah XD

stand inside your love
smashing pumpkins

you and me
meant to be
immutable
impossible
it's destiny
pure lunacy
incalculable
insufferable
but for the last time
you're everything that i want and ask for
you're all that i'd dreamed
who wouldn't be the one you love
who wouldn't stand inside your love
protected and the lover of
a pure soul and beautiful you
don't understand
don't feel me now
i will breath
for the both of us
travel the world
traverse the skies
your home is here
within my heart
and for the first time
i feel as though i am reborn
in my mind
recast as child and mystic sage
who wouldn't be the one you love
who wouldn't stand inside your love
and for the first time
i'm telling you how much i need and bleed for
your every move and waking sound
in my time
i'll wrap my wire around your heart and your mind
you're mine forever now
who wouldn't be the one you love and live for
who wouldn't stand inside your love and die for
who wouldn't be the one you love

Don't You Just Want To PUNCH Colin Farrell?

I think Chris Jones is my favourite Esquire writer.

The Original Plan called for me to pop down to Toronto--my former digs and what was until recently his workplace, filming A Home at the End of the World--and lull him into a false sense of buddy-buddy. You know, by guiding him through a big night out, maybe sharing an illicit after-hours bevy at the Matador, and, invariably, watching him drop his pants in Yorkville, because he's ever so proud that his dick has a European cut, or lack thereof. Then I was going to suggest, innocent as unsweetened apple juice, that maybe we could go to one of that city's venerable boxing halls, to Cabbagetown or Sully's, say, and just have a bit of a spar, for kicks like. And he was going to look at me, a little soft in the middle, and figure, "Yeah, all right then," and off we'd go, spitting into our palms and loosening up our shoulders like gentlemen.

Except I wouldn't be after a dance. I'd be looking to lay on a bit of a beating. Because I'm sick of the guy. I'm sick of seeing his cocky pug face smirking out from all these glossy soft-boy magazine covers--"Have you had sex with Colin Farrell yet?"--and reading about how fucking great his life is, and hearing about all of his drinking and smoking and humping of pretty young things, and, gee, isn't he just one of the goddamn swells? So, yeah, I figured it'd be a hell of a good cathartic exercise if I did everybody a favor and knocked out a few of his nubby mick teeth, derailing his wonderful roller-coaster existence for one big migraine of a day.

Trouble was, his people didn't go for it. Nope, I had to face him down on his turf instead, in L. A., at West Hollywood's splashy Chateau Marmont, where Farrell has an army of charmed zombies watching his back and a table waiting in a remote corner of the starlit garden bar, so he can chain-smoke his Camel Lights and watch the prom queens turned porn stars and, at first opportunity, call me a cunt.

I swallow it, trying to act something like a professional, at least until I find the right time to bitch-slap his eyes shut. But I have to give him a jab early on, just to take the edge off. The easy knock is on his hair, which he's dyed blond and spiked out of boredom, but he beats me to the punch: "I look like Beaker off the fucking Muppets." So I mention the Original Plan, or parts of it at least, and how, instead of letting me have a nice ride of things, everything's been arranged so that I have to miss my wife, and goddamn him for that.

"Toronto," he says. "SARSville."

"Oh, God, more people die of the fucking flu."

"I know. Relax. Look at you--the fucking Canadian getting his back up. All it takes is one four-letter word." Two, actually. But then he laughs, a disarming sort of laugh, and he orders us a couple bottles of beer--each--which disarms me a little bit more.

"It's just that with the whole mad-cow thing, too . . ."

"Yeah," he says. "You guys are fucked. Your days are numbered."

Now it's my turn to laugh, thinking that I'd been thinking the very same thing about him. And, okay, still am.

He fills the awkward silence that follows by taking in the scene, looking for easy marks, of which there are several, which gives me enough time to size him up, too. He's taller than I thought he was, but that's probably because I've somehow fallen for the half-truth that all actors are midgets. I'll have to go inside. His ribs are poking through his black CBGB's T-shirt and thus are ripe for the cracking, dictating a first shot to the body. Then maybe a nose job, because pretty boys--and this one's really pretty, all manly twitches and squints--can't much abide scar tissue, although he has a couple of tattoos, including a cover-up on his left forearm. (It used to say "CARPE DIEM . . . with my girl," and now it just says CARPE DIEM over a cross.) That means he can take at least a little bit of pain, so it won't be a one-punch KO unless I catch him dead sweetly.

Either way, Irish eyes will soon be crying. But first, I need to bring his hands down with a few soft lobs--there's more than one way to get inside--maybe by talking about, hell, I don't know. . . .

"What's the deal with S.W. A.T.?"

"Comes out in August, I think. It's a big wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am action-popcorn kind of deal, based loosely on a seventies TV show of the same name. It was just four months of, you know, too much testosterone, pushing each other in fucking locker rooms, with lots of guns and explosions and things."

He takes a pull from his beer and a cigarette, seemingly at the same time. "You know, it gets old real fast."

"Yeah?"

"Of course. I've been lucky enough to have jobs come my way, and I've taken them, and I've had a good time doing them . . . but I want to be fucking knocking around the block for a good while, I think. And I want to do stuff that keeps my interest in the job alive. It's not a tough gig--don't get me wrong. All I'm talking about is getting a little bit bored. It's like, I've got Alexander next, with Oliver Stone"--an epic production about Alexander the Great that will no doubt do wonders for the size of his head--"and that's going to be a mad fucking job. That'll be a fucking trip. And that's what I'm on about, trying to do different stuff just to keep it interesting."

He takes a breath, which is of the liquid variety, when we're interrupted by Constance, the garden's doting host. Constance's mother, turns out, was Farrell's guest at one of his New York premieres, which Constance reports was the thrill of his mom's whole entire life. Farrell aw-shucks his way through the thanks and praise, and then he makes a little gentle fun of Constance--who wishes Farrell was his boyfriend--but even if he's suddenly decent-seeming, I'm not having any of it. He's duped plenty of soft targets before, with his easily digestible tale of a soccer-playing father and a center-of-his-universe mother and a childhood spent roaming the wet cobbled streets of Dublin, kissing girls and kicking about. All that, of course, before getting into acting at his older brother Eamon's behest, and then being discovered on some London stage by the fluke of having Kevin Spacey in the audience, which led to his admittedly solid turn in Tigerland, which led to everything else since, including fame, fortune, and, tonight, having a price put on his peroxided head.

He finishes firing his opening salvo of across-the-room stares, swigs back another great gulp, and settles more deeply into his chair. That's good, because it means he's getting comfortable, and comfortable men don't fight worth shit. I just need to keep him going, get him distracted while keeping my own head--when here comes another round. Which reminds me.

"A lot is made of your good times," I say, maybe a little too harshly. (Here, really, beats the black heart of my rancor: I can't grasp why his drunken stumbling through models and starlets and neovirginal pop singers the way he runs through cigarettes is so wonderfully goddamn refreshing.)

"Too much. I'm an actor, so the spotlight's on me."

"The stupid thing is"--what in the hell is about to come out of my mouth?--"anyone who had the chance to do what you're doing would be doing it, right?"

"Absolutely. Thank fucking God, man, I'm still alive. I haven't been in rehab--yet--and I'm golden, man. I work hard and I play hard. It's always been that way. But because I have this light shining on my fucking head, it's all, 'Ooooh, he's a bad boy,' or 'Ooooh, he's crazy.' It's ridiculous. If I sleep with more than two girls in a month, it's in all the papers, big fucking headlines: THE LUSTY LEPRECHAUN. It's . . ." He stops and smiles. "Actually, I kind of liked that one."

"You gonna have a costume to go with that?"

"Oh, yeah," he says. "A green codpiece, and that's it."

So we laugh some more, this time hard and genuinely, which isn't good. That, plus the drink--no, really, where do these keep coming from?--is leaving me in less of a mood for a bust-up. He's sitting there, manic and happy and benign, and now he's talking about his insecurities (how can he possibly be insecure?) and how he cares about what he does (I have a soft spot for people who care about much of anything these days), and I can't help thinking--

"You're always second-guessing yourself. You're never content with what you do. You're like a greyhound coming out of the fucking pocket, and there's a little hare in front of you--that's the fucking hare of contentment--and just when you think you're getting close to the fucking thing, the race is over and the fucking thing keeps going, and it's out of your sight and you're never going to catch it. I'm chasing something I'll never catch with this job: I'm chasing a feeling of peace that I don't think I'll ever experience. Believe me, not a drop of blood has ever passed through my fucking cock while I was watching myself. I do not get off on it at all."

--that he's spinning gold.

YET ANOTHER DRINK'S PUSHED BACK. A girl waves and comes over. She knows him, and there's a flicker of recognition in his muddy eyes, but he's not sure where to place her, except probably on her back. She invites him to a party on Saturday night, at a glass-walled mansion up in the hills, and as she's talking to him, she kneels down in front of him and leans forward to show off her rack, which looks to be natural. (He's not big on fake tits, by the way.) It's a little disturbing--especially seeing as she came here with some guy, who's now sitting at their table alone--watching this woman quite literally laying herself at his feet, and I'm thinking, Here we go. But Farrell's sister Claudine is up in his room--the four Farrell siblings are as tight as drums--and even if she weren't, he's not looking as if he's into the action. It's as though our moods have followed different paths, but to the same place, just enjoying the night and knowing that it's not going to rain for a few days and that there are so many worse things in the world than this.

He lets her down, but gently, and she goes back to the man who won't be in her dreams tonight. "Because you're an actor, you're thought to have a high potential for wanker behavior," Farrell says after he's complimented on his touch. "So instead of just being reprimanded if you're a wanker, you actually end up getting kudos for being half decent. Which is bullshit. It says something about the whole fucking thing, you know what I mean?"

As if to underscore his point, he's got waiters coming up and saying hey and smiling brightly just because he's greeting them by name, and the bartender sends over a glass of milk and two shot glasses as a dig because we're not drinking fast enough--"Get that fucking thing off my table!"--and then Farrell flat-out guarantees my peace by talking about his becoming a father, a calamitous event that will take place in short order, and he talks about it exactly like this, without question or pause or interruption:

"I'm so excited. I'm so fucking excited. It's the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me. There's nothing more important in the world than bringing a life into it. I mean, the world's a crazy fucking place, but it's also such a fucking beautiful place. The world is infinitely beautiful. And you just hope your child sees less of the other side of that coin. I see shit everywhere I fucking look--I see people being nasty, I see bullies, I see death--but everywhere I look, I also see beauty and I see generosity. And I want my boy--it's going to be a boy--to see those things. I guess you want him to see them both, sure, to see the good and the bad, but then you want for him to choose good. I don't know. I'm really excited about it, man. I'm not with her--we're not together--but she's an amazing fucking woman, man. Her name's Kim. We're going to be fucking mates, and we're going to respect and love each other and just raise the child in love. That sounds ideal to the point of idiocy, I know, but it's not impossible. I've seen families--the 'ideal' nucleus of what a family should be--fall to shit, disintegrate, and the kids be damaged. So I don't see why the blessed situation that Kim and I find ourselves in--which might not seem ideal to others, though I can't see how that matters a fuck--I can't see why it can't be the most beautiful, perfect thing. I'm having a boy. I'm having a little dude. And I cannot fucking wait. I'm really not that nervous at all--except about when I'm not going to be there, when I'm going to be sitting on a fucking horse in Marrakech shouting, 'I am Alexander!' and I'm going to want to be with him instead. And I know that's going to break my heart."

THAT'S ALL I NEED TO HEAR. And to drink. My brain's jumping around like I've been watching David Lynch movies, when up sidles--shit you not--a Portuguese water dog named Blue and its owner and its owner's friend, a middle-aged English woman in the publishing business who takes her place at Farrell's feet and starts making strange noises, like a bad Austin Powers impersonator trying to sound like a cat. She's kind of purring or growling or mewling or, more accurately, trying to pull off a combination of all three, which is really fucking bizarre. So I settle back, fresh out of hate, and give Blue a pat-pat-pat on the head and take the chance to watch the ritual, ringside.

The middle-aged English woman looks into Farrell's eyes and says, "Ooooh, you're mean" and giggles and bites the air. (She does me the courtesy of looking into my eyes, too, but then she makes a face and says, "You're creepy" and goes back to rolling around in front of Farrell.) And he's just sitting there, playing with her, batting her around like a ball of yarn. He turns away from her every now and then to deliver lines from magazine-profile heaven--"I've been accused of playing up my Irishness, but to be Irish is to have the fucking right to play up your Irishness," and "Fair play to Deepak Chopra, but I don't know if I want to know all the answers," and "Sometimes you hear people whispering about you in the supermarket, but they're probably saying, 'Is that Guy Pearce?' "--and then he turns back to her, and he's smiling nubby mick smiles that occasionally turn into laughter, and I can see how a twenty-seven-year-old Irish guy in the middle of all this weirdness might have a tendency to go off a bit and to drink and to smoke and to hump pretty young things. I can see that now. I can see all of it.

I order another drink--just one more, a nightcap--content to ease through the rest of the evening like a boat slowly passing through a canal. At last, my hands are well and truly down, and he looks at me, and he sees that the time is right.

He spits out a ball of cancer. "You know, the spotting of a cunt is usually in the energy of a person," he says. And just a little bit later, "Are you still looking for a fight, man? Come on, then. I'll fight you."

He pushes back his chair. And up he gets.

megan fox ... yeah

oh. my. gosh.

yay sexy writing

YOUR EYES ARE THE SIZE OF THE MOON

YOU COULD 'COS YOU CAN SO YOU DO
WE'RE FEELING SO GOOD, JUST THE WAY THAT WE DO

Silence filled the surrounding air, swelling like a vacuum that whipped the corners of the couches and tables that filled the common room. The beauty across the room, so pale, so dark, so utterly surreal, stood motionless in the dim, her smile widening and worldly, jadeite eyes sweeping over his form, taking in the muscles and flesh, flesh stretched tightly over dramatically defined bones. She found him intoxicating, he knew - he could feel it in the air, read it from her captivated expression, which she was definitely not trying to hide.

Finally, her brilliant, glassy orbs flew to his own, her voice oozing with a lofty grace, yet thick and deep, like a low purr. 'Am I interrupting ...?' she said, her fine brows arched curiously. 'Though what's done is done and so ... it shouldn't matter' she said dismissively. Her body began to move, her slender, seamless legs moving into the light of the window. The flesh that stretched over her, as fine as silk, was luminescent in the light; it shimmered like deep pools of honeyed milk, the shadows sweeping dark lines toward the curve of her thighs. His eyes roamed over her, taking in the curved hips the rose into such a small and supple waist made more defined by the silken bow. The line of her dress emphasized the smooth valley between her breasts and tightened to reveal perfectly arched clavicles, so firm and defined. She advanced slowly, her pouty lips giving way to perfect, small teeth, set above a child's jawline. He felt the pads of her fingertips pricking against the smooth air as she lifted one dainty palm, and he watched her face lighten as the long digits pulled at a grouping of long strands. Her face changed, as if at first she had not realized what she had done, and then she grinned at him, gaze daring him to challenge what she'd done.

Dorian stared, the ends of his ruddy lips pulled up into a subtle, knowing smile. It was not the first time a person was moved to tug at his coppery strands, though each time made him smile. He moved closer, taking one slow step, the air drafting about them, and cupped a finger beneath her chin. Lifting her gaze higher, he looked down on her, only inches between them, and gave a wide, devilish grin. 'But of course it matters', he said, his voice lifting in falling in the aged French of his days, a deep burr that with the added charm and lull of a centuries old vampire would move the strongest of humans and hold fast to a likely heart. 'You should know that as well as any of us'. For of course, not all vampires held such disdainful hearts, and he could feel the soul next to him, sordid and evil, yet so very lovely and full; it pulled him in, and he bent his head, his lips pursing loosely against hers. His long, spindly digits moved through the frenzied locks and pulled her closer, till she meshed against him and he could feel the slow course of her sweet blood moving beneath the textures of dress and skin.

status :: for taren
outfit :: x x x
listening to :: nine in the afternoon; panic at the disco

Bitching and Mackeel

I hate. hate hate hate. MLA formatting. I hate papers. I hate citation sheets. I hate it all =.= A great band, sadly they broke up so their stuff is difficult to find ><

song i'm addicted to at the moment ...

straight to video ;; mindless self indulgence ^.^