February 4th, 2009
With the Oscar nominations having recently been announced, I thought it might be timely to moan about who got career bitch slapped by the Academy this year. It’s funny to think that any cross-section of America could even be remotely interested in the display of self-crapulence that is the Hollywood awards season, but somehow people tune in, waiting to see who takes home the statue… And how soused Jack Nicholson gets during the commercial breaks.
Seriously, the only time Jack is sober these days is at Knicks games. So sad. You know you’re really down the tubes when Penny Marshall won’t talk to you at halftime anymore.
I only tune into the Oscars to reaffirm my own belief that when you take an actor off-script and ask them to ‘speak from the heart,’ they collapse in a heap of overinflated mess, sounding something like a cross between Tommy Chong and a Jersey cow giving birth over a public address system. I usually demand control over the remote, mute button quickly within reach, and slightly cringe at the likes of Susan Sarandon & Sean Penn.
Fine actors, for sure, but their off-screen social leanings bring to mind the fantastical phrase of WC Fields: They’re better seen and not heard. It’s not that I’m some dyed-in-the-wool GOP member, but I am relatively moderate when it comes to most issues. I’m an issue voter, not a single-party whipping boy. Radicals, of any party or nature, aren’t people I have much in common with. It’s easy to be idealistic about the world around you when you’re making $10 million a film with a $300 million back-end deal off open market merchandising, DVD sales and foreign box office. Reality eludes at that altitude. That’s why you’ve got guys out there like Robert Downey Jr who have tap-danced at the top, taken an all-inclusive vacation at Club Fed and come back with new perspective on just how real ‘reality’ can be. He’s a little more humble these days with the success he’s achieved: In fact, I hear he’s even saying ‘please’ before asking the red carpet press line to go fuck themselves.
It didn’t shock me to hear that Heath Ledger was nominated for his supporting role in the latest Batman film, but to actually hear people say he’ll win it is just ridiculous. The fellow actors that he’s up against give equal or better performances, but ultimately it’s a lose-lose situation for anyone (alive) who wins the trophy. They’ll need to kneel at the shrine of Ledger before accepting their award or risk coming across as selfish and undeserving. What’s most unfortunate is that Ledger is getting such accolade for the type of role that’s been played more convincingly by better actors in the past. Psychotic’s been done. I can name ten other madman performances that had more nuance and heft, starting with ‘Alex’ from Clockwork Orange.
The ‘selling point’ in all of this is the circumstance surrounding the film: That he died before it was released. Very few in the press are willing to admit it, but it’s the honest truth: Batman would have easily been a top-grossing pic last year by its own merit, but it was helped immensely by the media freak show. There’s always been this fascination with dying young in Hollywood, as if it seems to cement the status of someone’s legend even if they don’t quite deserve it. Frankly, I think that speaking in those kinds of hushed, reverent tones should be reserved for the likes of Meryl Streep, Jimmy Stewart or Rao’s Whole Wheat Pasta.
Whatever happens at this year’s Oscars, I’m just glad they brought in some new blood to host (Holy Hugh Jackman, Batman!) and we can now watch this latent mister-sister sing, dance and prance his way through the musical numbers. ‘But he’s married!’ you may shriek… Yeah, so was Rock Hudson.
‘Won’t you join me in my gracious drawing room?’
I’m thinking of taking a vacation. Such a bold statement during this financial ‘crisis’ is liable to get me in a mess of Limbaugh-esque proportions, but with the weather turning colder and a sliver of open space near Valentine’s Day, methinks that a personal holiday is in order. I’m imagining a quiet spot, suitable for AussieBums (or bare bum), a good book, fresh sea air and a decent place to work up a sweat. Right now the candidates are St. Lucia, Tahiti, Bermuda, Turks & Caicos or Lanai. I like the looks of the Aman resorts, but am also liking the offerings at The Grace Bay Club. Going online and researching is a little mind-numbing, as each website has their own ratings system. I also worry about finding a great looking resort website, booking the trip and ending up staying at something that resembles Buchenwald in springtime. Photoshop makes anything look incredible these days.
What I really don’t want is a lot of tourist noise, wedding receptions, bachelor parties and women who loudly complain at the pool about their fifth husband stopping alimony payments. You know the kind of gal I’m talking about: The ones who not only hyphenate their name, but their poodle’s name too. The kind that spend good money to wear Prada from head-to-toe, but smoke Virgina Slims while ordering a Red Bull and Grey Goose.
Spell it out with me: T-A-C-K-Y… You ain’t got no alibi.
I’ve also been looking at going back to a fantastic little place overlooking the Grand Pitons in St. Lucia called Ladera. Amazing views. I’ve got a killer review of the place in an old edition of 15mm. Too lazy to look right now, but will link it later. Their big selling point is that all of their rooms are built without a fourth-wall, so they look directly out onto the ocean. Really dramatic. Definitely a room for those without a ‘naked in public’ stigma (although, even without a wall, you’re completely secluded). Another selling point is that every room includes a private plunge pool.
Whatever is decided, look for snapshots on the photoblog and reviews on upcoming uploads of 15mm. If anyone happens to have any personal suggestions, feel free to drop me a line.
If I were you, I wouldn’t ask about the cherry tomatoes…
As for me, I’m rolling back into my Nazi ways of self-torture and flagellation. While it may sound kinky in that Richard Simmons sort of way, it’s no laughing matter. 5 days a week of weights, 3 days of Bikram Yoga. It’s leaning me down, ripping up my stomach
, getting me vascular…. and making me incredibly horny. Seriously, when I’ve had time by myself, it’s been impossible keeping my hands outta my pants. As of this week, my record on solo-stroke has been 6 times in one day. Who’da thought that yoga would release the need to strip down and sex-it-up? No wonder the yogis are always so smiley.
And with that being said, let me also share my web object of desire for most of my recent solo missions:
I’m not just hitting it hard at the gym, but also (finally) watching my food intake, regulating the crap and eating more protein & fiber than should be legally allowed. I’m 27, in the best shape of my life and working on a goal that includes bigger, more cut arms/shoulders, continuing the V-shape in my torso, dieting down to around 6% body fat and putting mass on my calves. With constant work and no slacking, it should take me about 4-6 months to reach my goal. Right now I’m 6’3″, 195lbs. I’m at 9% body fat.
Here’s a snapshot of what I’m looking like these days. Taken yesterday:
Big thanks to DK and his universe of connected sites & blogs, always keeping the readers of 15mm updated and well-read on the latest in the gay adult world. He may be called a ‘guilty pleasure’ by some, but from the looks of his web traffic and salacious scoop, he makes us feel anything but guilty. 15mm is inclined to call him the FUTURE of the adult web world and the one-stop-shop for sizzling hot daily dude dish.
Thumb’s up to Big B and his blog for this tip on creating your own ‘Obamacon.’ This randy RentBoy’er always seems to find the most interesting online widgets to talk up and we salute that. Also in the world of RentBoy, nominations are now flowing in for the 2009 ‘Hookie’ awards. Now’s the time to cruise profiles and help select who’ll win that awe-inspiring lifetime supply of Turtle Wax (or residual cash value, void where prohibited, no COD’s, call now, operators are standing by).
What ABSolutely stunning Big Apple escort is tinkering with a return to the hooking limelight? 15mm can not yet confirm nor deny his final decision, but rest assured that with his package of very well-hung charm, killer smile and beautiful body, his dance card will likely be on auto-refill. Stay tuned for more on this one.
On the flipside, what former West Coast wonk-for-hire is now regretting giving up the only job that paid him good money? After leaving the biz (and the states), this loopy lad learned that living on the Euro means quite a bit of lifestyle re-adjustment. Now going broke, he can’t imagine getting back into hooking (as he hated every second of it) and very well may spend the rest of his life in the ‘educational bubble.’ Having burned his bridges with angry clientele on the way out, it seems that this once bountiful-butt-boy will have to find a new way to spin straw into gold.
I was sent this whimsical NY Observer article from a longtime reader regarding the ‘urban-hipsters’ of Manhattan who are now forced to hook in order to afford their rent and Marc Jacobs sunglasses.
Are you fucking kidding me? I sell my body in order to buy overpriced, plastic shades designed by a cocaine-fueled manwhore? How sad sack is that? If you’re going to strip-and-sell, you might as well aim a little higher and plan your financial future out. Get a finance man. Pay some taxes. That old chestnut. The Observer treats them like 1930s starlets, when in-fact what they’re earning puts them on the low end of the escort totem pole. I guess I have slight problems with articles that skim over the meat & potatoes of male escorting, while only going for the 50pt headline. Sure, it gets the reader’s attention, but doesn’t really add anything to your intellectual arsenal. Escorting can be a fascinating, incredible way to live your life and to have it wrapped up in such a dingy package by The Observer doesn’t do it proper justice.
Look for a large posting of EYE CANDY coming in the next few days. I’m overflowing with a harvest of jock-hotties in compromising positions. The purge draws near.
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