Births, Deaths, Marriages etc.
Right, before we go any further in this weekend's update, time to offer hearty congratulations to Keef and Lara on the birth of a bouncing baby boy who will go by the name of Joe.
Shuffling out stage left to make way though, is actor David Hemmings, whose life was blown out by a heart attack this week. Let this be a warning to the ladies: Hemmings was a pretty-boy icon of the 60s (the Jude Law of his day) but by the 80s was unrecognisably bloated with bizarrely-cultivated eyebrows, forcing a move behind the cameras. The Guardian obit is a little more charitable, but in my view, rather overstates the renaissance in his career.
And completing the circle is the news that Coldplay singer Chris Martin and three-months pregnant Gwyneth Paltrow, possibly the least interesting couple in the history of showbiz trivia, are heading for a shotgun wedding. Let's hope that's literal and they're aiming at each other.
Because I've always fancied doing the Cilla bit on Surprise! Surprise! I can reveal that Lee Mavers, the one from The Las who had the good grace not to form Cast, has been found. The 'reclusive' scally was tracked down to a semi in Liverpool. Not hiding too hard, then.
The fascinating anti-folk chanteuse Regina Spektor is to occupy the support slot on the upcoming UK tour by Kings Of Leon. If you're going, Parallax View respectfully suggests getting there early.
Meanwhile, Wolves fail in Rivaldo bid. The Brazilian superstar couldn't find dungarees to fit, apparently.
Here's a real-time video of members of Rilo Kiley watching that Paris Hilton video. Watching Jenny Lewis watching porn is actually more of a voyeuristic thrill than the original lewd vid: initially she looks between her fingers, before developing a lip-biting fascination with the material, and then finally, she runs from the room. To change her ringtone, presumably. (link via Large Hearted Boy)
Or maybe she went off for a wank, which is something that's been definitely on Creepy Lesbo's, um, mind, of late, as well as her tongue -
'It tasted fantastic (well, if you can't have the real thing from someone else, why waste it?) Don't look at me like that - everyone has tasted their own, and if you haven't you should. There is nothing like the taste of girl. I could say all those awful cliches here, about 'honey' and 'sweetness' but it's all a crock of shit - and I want you all to remember that. Nearest thing I can describe it as it like real butter - not your margarine, not your other spreads - REAL butter, just out of the fridge. Imagine sliding your tongue down that butter. It feels soft as it melts slightly on your tongue - and think of the lubrication your saliva and that butter makes as your mouth heats it slightly. And it's salty - but in a good way - in a 'hmm, this is good' way. But very salty. Girls are like butter. Yummy (and great with potatoes!). Heh.'
Nobody's quite letting go like Creepy at the moment. It's car-wreck bloggage at its most honest and hilarious. I do worry about her though sometimes.
And finally, this weekend's instalment of Mason and Dixon watch. Ben has taken on the Michael Redgrave role, hectoring encouragement to my Tom Courtenay in what could be termed as The Loneliness Of The Long-Distance Blogger Translating A Pynchon Epic In Digestible Chunks To A Largely Disinterested Readership Who Have Come Here Via Google Looking For Porn (snappy, huh?). But, as it happens, the book offers enough warped imagination and surreal fun that it doesn't feel like a chore. Yet. Pages 175-199 finds the melancholic Mason drawn to an ear museum where he is given the opportunity to voice his desires to a distended listening appendage. But rather than choosing the option of wishing for his phantom wife Rebekah to be brought back to life, Mason opts to ask for the swift and safe return of his estranged colleague Dixon from Cape Town, and thus the central love story of the book seems to emerge.
Friends reunited, Mason and Dixon return to London, where they discover that Mason's boss Mr Bradley has died. Drinking in a local tavern, Mason learns that not everybody misses Bradders, as pissed-up locals blame him for the 'calendar adjustment' that they argue has robbed them of precious drinking days. Mason is enraged by this, and considers the option of fighting the corner of his departed department head, but remembers that the pub offers the finest ale in town, and decides to buy them all a round of drinks instead.
More Mason and Dixon watch, next week. You know you want it.
Right, before we go any further in this weekend's update, time to offer hearty congratulations to Keef and Lara on the birth of a bouncing baby boy who will go by the name of Joe.
Shuffling out stage left to make way though, is actor David Hemmings, whose life was blown out by a heart attack this week. Let this be a warning to the ladies: Hemmings was a pretty-boy icon of the 60s (the Jude Law of his day) but by the 80s was unrecognisably bloated with bizarrely-cultivated eyebrows, forcing a move behind the cameras. The Guardian obit is a little more charitable, but in my view, rather overstates the renaissance in his career.
And completing the circle is the news that Coldplay singer Chris Martin and three-months pregnant Gwyneth Paltrow, possibly the least interesting couple in the history of showbiz trivia, are heading for a shotgun wedding. Let's hope that's literal and they're aiming at each other.
Because I've always fancied doing the Cilla bit on Surprise! Surprise! I can reveal that Lee Mavers, the one from The Las who had the good grace not to form Cast, has been found. The 'reclusive' scally was tracked down to a semi in Liverpool. Not hiding too hard, then.
The fascinating anti-folk chanteuse Regina Spektor is to occupy the support slot on the upcoming UK tour by Kings Of Leon. If you're going, Parallax View respectfully suggests getting there early.
Meanwhile, Wolves fail in Rivaldo bid. The Brazilian superstar couldn't find dungarees to fit, apparently.
Here's a real-time video of members of Rilo Kiley watching that Paris Hilton video. Watching Jenny Lewis watching porn is actually more of a voyeuristic thrill than the original lewd vid: initially she looks between her fingers, before developing a lip-biting fascination with the material, and then finally, she runs from the room. To change her ringtone, presumably. (link via Large Hearted Boy)
Or maybe she went off for a wank, which is something that's been definitely on Creepy Lesbo's, um, mind, of late, as well as her tongue -
'It tasted fantastic (well, if you can't have the real thing from someone else, why waste it?) Don't look at me like that - everyone has tasted their own, and if you haven't you should. There is nothing like the taste of girl. I could say all those awful cliches here, about 'honey' and 'sweetness' but it's all a crock of shit - and I want you all to remember that. Nearest thing I can describe it as it like real butter - not your margarine, not your other spreads - REAL butter, just out of the fridge. Imagine sliding your tongue down that butter. It feels soft as it melts slightly on your tongue - and think of the lubrication your saliva and that butter makes as your mouth heats it slightly. And it's salty - but in a good way - in a 'hmm, this is good' way. But very salty. Girls are like butter. Yummy (and great with potatoes!). Heh.'
Nobody's quite letting go like Creepy at the moment. It's car-wreck bloggage at its most honest and hilarious. I do worry about her though sometimes.
And finally, this weekend's instalment of Mason and Dixon watch. Ben has taken on the Michael Redgrave role, hectoring encouragement to my Tom Courtenay in what could be termed as The Loneliness Of The Long-Distance Blogger Translating A Pynchon Epic In Digestible Chunks To A Largely Disinterested Readership Who Have Come Here Via Google Looking For Porn (snappy, huh?). But, as it happens, the book offers enough warped imagination and surreal fun that it doesn't feel like a chore. Yet. Pages 175-199 finds the melancholic Mason drawn to an ear museum where he is given the opportunity to voice his desires to a distended listening appendage. But rather than choosing the option of wishing for his phantom wife Rebekah to be brought back to life, Mason opts to ask for the swift and safe return of his estranged colleague Dixon from Cape Town, and thus the central love story of the book seems to emerge.
Friends reunited, Mason and Dixon return to London, where they discover that Mason's boss Mr Bradley has died. Drinking in a local tavern, Mason learns that not everybody misses Bradders, as pissed-up locals blame him for the 'calendar adjustment' that they argue has robbed them of precious drinking days. Mason is enraged by this, and considers the option of fighting the corner of his departed department head, but remembers that the pub offers the finest ale in town, and decides to buy them all a round of drinks instead.
More Mason and Dixon watch, next week. You know you want it.
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