Posts Tagged ‘John Cusack’

Look, I’ve been trying to write a blog post called ‘It’s A Hot-Off!’ for the past hour but I just can’t get it to work. It was all about how I told my friend MM that the Prep Mums at the school this year are apparently really hot but that I refuse to go to the Prep area because I don’t want to have to enter a ‘Hot-Off’ situation with these (allegedly) Hot Mums.

(“‘Hot-Off’ sounds kinda wrong, doesn’t it?” I said to MM.
“Yes,” MM replied. “And yet so right…”)

Anyway, ‘It’s A Hot-Off’ has now been banished to my Drafts folder along with some other never-to-be-published ‘gems’ that I can’t quite bring myself to delete because maybe, just maybe, the world will one day be ready for them.

For example:

How God Almost Got Us A Late Pass

A true story. It involved Tiddles McGee claiming he saw God in the mirror, but whether or not he was actually seeing his own reflection and thinking that he, himself, was God remains unclear to this day.

I Never Said You Could Play The Egg
A post about my total lack of rhythm when it comes to playing the egg. Or rather, the egg-shaped shaker. Yes, it’s as exciting as it sounds.

In A Post-Apocalyptic World, The Man With Cable Ties Is King
This post is actually just a title. But what a title.

John Cusack Says “John Cusack Wants Table Five And A Food Tent!”
The title pretty much sums the post up. It attempted to start the rumour that John Cusack always talks about himself in the third person and insists on having his own personal food tent to protect his meals in restaurants. No, I don’t understand why either, but while I was trying to write this post, I actually also tried googling John Cusack’s legal counsel so I knew who I’d be dealing with.

2012: The Year Of Marrying David Bowie
The story of how, in 1985, a Ouija board predicted I would one day marry David Bowie and how I, myself, have predicted that this will happen next year. Like, for real.

The Iron Latte
A post about how my husband always travels with an electric iron which he uses as a make-shift stove for his espresso pot. Again: true story. Why would I make up this shit?

Don’t Trust Anything With Eyes On The Side Of Its Head
This started off about my aversion to birds and fish but then ended up being about being about the fear of potatoes and how there is a word for the fear of potato PRODUCTS (potnonomicaphobia) but not for fear of potatoes themselves and how the lack of a formal label for this phobia probably makes people who are genuinely afraid of potatoes feel unrecognised by the medical profession and how there are probably people out there with a genuine fear of developing a phobia that doesn’t have a label and that, ironically, that fear probably doesn’t have a label either. Yes, this post was a winner.

So there you go. If you ever feel that my blog is strange or mundane, there’s the proof – THE PROOF – that it could be whole lot stranger and/or mundaner. Oh, it could also include more made-up words like mundaner. Whatevs. Just thank your lucky stars that I don’t publish everything…

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I read recently about a woman jailed for stalking actor John Cusack and I wondered how one became a “stalker” as opposed to just a “dedicated fan”. It must happen slowly over time without you really knowing it’s happening and suddenly you find yourself standing on the wrong side of that fine line between an enthusiastic appreciation for someone’s work as an actor and a pathological obsession. For example, it might start off innocently enough with, say,  repeated viewings of “The Sure Thing” or “Better Off Dead” and a few appreciative fan letters dotted with your perfume. And then you get all revved up by “Grosse Pointe Blank” and maybe indulge in a spot of queuing-in-inclement-weather just to catch a glimpse of the Man Himself on the red-carpet and shout “John! John! I’ll have your babies, John!”. And then somehow you weather the doldrums of “Serendipity” and send off a few more fan letters, perhaps written in your own blood to show exactly how much you care. And then suddenly there you are, parked in your car directly outside his residence, carving the words “I [heart] JC”on your forehead with a stanley knife. Et voila! You’re handed a restraining order and branded as a stalker for the rest of your life. See how easily it can happen?

I guess that slippery slope into stalkerdom has been a bit on my mind as a few nights ago I was ever-so-slightly coerced into seeing “Quantum of Solace” again, which made me feel a bit of a Capital F “Fan” of the beautiful Daniel Craig. You see, I really don’t make a habit of wasting precious cinema time on films I’ve already seen and in fact, now I think about it, the last film I saw twice in the cinema was “The Matrix” in 1998. But then I saw that twice because I didn’t quite understand it the first time (having seen it under jetlag conditions in Boston). And for the record, I didn’t understand “The Matrix Reloaded” and “The Matrix Revolutions” either but not because I was jetlagged but because they were stupid, and needless to say, I didn’t extend them the same double-viewing treatment. No, siree. Not this punter. 

Luckily for me, my second viewing of “Quantum of Solace” gave me two gifts: it not only brought me just a little bit closer to understanding what the fuck was going on with that plot, but it also brought to my attention the fact that ol’ Danny Boy is wearing white trousers for a good part of the film. Yes, you read that correctly: White. Trousers. Now call me a fuss-pot, but I have never liked a man in White Trousers. There’s just something deeply wrong about it. Same goes for black trousers and brown shoes. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. And yet, the black-trousers-brown-shoes combo was another fashion crime committed by the wardrobe department on QoS. I’d like to think Daniel would dress himself differently, given a chance, but I Just. Can’t. Be. Sure. 

HOWEVER, despite all this Daniel Craig is still hot. Hot! Hot! Hot! And not just trapped-in-a-burning-hotel kind of hot. The man knows how to pout. And how to fill a suit. And how to drive an Astin Martin while pouting and filling a suit. AND YET, the white trouser question remains. Would he…? Could he…? And it’s that which stops me from becoming a full-blown stalker. If only John Cusack had done his fans the same courtesy, he could have saved himself, his stalker, and the US legal system a whole heap of trouble.

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