Because why the hell not?
Because why the hell not?
Because why the hell not?
I don’t want to like ABC’s Time After Time. I really don’t. I know where the story’s going (jump to a different era in every episode as H.G. pursues the dastardly Jack The Ripper in order to save lives and stave off some future calamity), but I keep coming back to it. As my friend Mark said, “I know you. It’s got a dark haired Brit with a hairy chest and a beard.”
Regrettably, I really am that shallow. But to be perfectly honest, I couldn’t make it all the way through the most recent episode in one sitting. It was so…predictable…that halfway through I had to turn it off and return to it this evening.
Because who doesn’t like a fuzzy-faced Aussie in pseudo-cowboy drag? Unf.
Such a tease.
Are you watching The Expanse on SyFy? If you’re a fan of “hard” sci-fi and you aren’t, you probably should be. To me it feels a lot like the network’s own Battlestar Galactica, and like BSG, Season One got off to a slow start. There’s a lot of universe-building going on, and if you’re unfamiliar with the source material like I was, it takes some time to get up to speed as characters are introduced and storylines established. Season Two, however, has really taken off and it’s become one of my “must not miss” shows this year.
And if that weren’t enough, hunky Wes Chatham gets plenty of screen time.
Yeah, yeah…I know the boxing shots aren’t from this particular show, but don’t hate.
I probably shouldn’t have watched one of my all-time favorite thrillers, The Hunt for Red October, before going to bed last night, but Alec Baldwin was undoubtedly at the height of his yumminess when the film came out in 1990 and I just simply couldn’t surf past. (Since Alec and I are the same age—something I hadn’t realized until I just double-checked the release date—I suppose I was at the height of my yumminess at the same time too. Sigh.)
Oh Alec…that chest hair [swoon]!
Sorry. I got distracted. Anyhow…
With our Executive branch of government currently in—to put it politely, total disarray—led by an imbecile who thinks he knows everything and refuses to listen to anyone or anything other than the voices in his own head, what’s to prevent the nightmare scenario postulated in the film (Russians parking a submarine off the eastern coast of the United States and nuking DC) from actually happening? Even if the military/CIA/FBI are aware of it and attempt to brief Cheetolini, who’s to say he won’t dismiss it as “fake news”—especially considering his tongue is so far up Putin’s ass they’re French kissing? Launch a nuke on DC and you’ve taken out the Federal Government, rendering any sort of immediate, coordinated response impossible. What would prevent Russian troops from then simply walking onto US soil and taking over à la Red Dawn?
I would hope that the government has a plan in place in the event of such a calamity, but who knows? This is the sort of shit that keeps me awake at 4 am.
Prompted by this post at My New Plaid Pants…
Fuck that. Let’s talk about Justin Theroux’s schlong.
It’s a very fresh retelling of the Oz stories, and I’m surprised I’m enjoying it as much as I am.
Of course the fact that Oliver Jackson Cohen (the “scarecrow”) seems to have a clause written into his contract that he must appear shirtless in every episode for a certain length of time has nothing to do with it.
Not that I’m complaining…
Oh Sam. Dat ‘stache…
Evan Rachel Wood attends the 18th Annual Post-Golden Globes Party hosted by Warner Bros. Pictures and InStyle at The Beverly Hilton Hotel in Beverly Hills, California (January 8, 2017)
I’ve been meaning to post this since I first saw it. For an actress to dress like this for such a prestigious event takes balls. Her look was so stunning and yet caused me to do a double-take because I knew I had seen something very similar before. Then it dawned on me: Victor-Victoria.
Bravo! No, “Brava!”
From Noah Michelson:
Last night, after word spread that pop star George Michael died at the age of 53, I sent out several tweets honoring the man who meant a lot to me as a queer young man who came out in the late ‘90s. My first tweet instructed those unfamiliar with Michael (and the brilliance of what he created) to seek out his music. This was my second tweet:
I suggest we all find a public bathroom wherever we are and go and have sex in it with a stranger tonight to properly honor George Michael.
— noah michelson (@noahmichelson) December 26, 2016
I was referencing Michael’s well-publicized history with cruising for sex in public places (he was arrested by an undercover policeman in a Beverly Hills men’s room in 1998 and again 10 years later in London). While I was being cheeky in a way that I thought he would appreciate in the big Wembley Stadium in the sky, I also meant it. It was my way of paying tribute to how open, outspoken and unapologetic he was about who he was (once he came out in 1998), his sexuality and looking for gay sex in what could be referred to as non-traditional locales.
But shit soon hit the fan. People who thought I was being “disrespectful” and “tacky” and “tasteless” flooded my Twitter mentions. A few people commented “too soon.” Others couldn’t believe that this was the only aspect of his life that I had chosen to concentrate on (which means they obviously didn’t read my aforementioned tweet). How dare I! One person called me “the 2016 of people” (which is actually kind of amazing) and another promised to “piss on my grave” when I died (I mean… don’t threaten my corpse with a good time, right?).
I tried to explain that as a queer, sex-positive man, this part of Michael’s life―these moments of queer sexuality and his sex life that were made very public―helped to reorganize and shape how I saw and embraced my own sexuality, which was nothing short of a miracle considering the homophobic and sex-negative culture we live in.
My tweet wasn’t a joke and it wasn’t rude or disrespectful. If you read it that way you’re implying that gay sex―public or otherwise―is shameful. I don’t and neither did Michael.
Goddamn you all to hell, 2016!
…that Harrison Schmitt (b. 3 July 1935), Lunar Module Co-Pilot on the United States’ last manned mission to the Moon, Apollo 17 (December 1972), was such a hottie? Day-um!
That is all.
We could all use a little fuzzy shirtless Thomas Jane right about now…
You can never have too much shirtless Joel McHale.