Monday, May 05, 2014

Champagne Problems

I am not above an actor crush. Not by a long shot. Not by a mile.

You know how it goes:

"Who is that? I'll look him up on IMDB. Oh, he was in that? That was good. I'll just re-watch that really quickly. ...Wow, how did I miss how attractive he was in that? I need to look at some pictures of his attractiveness so I can just affirm how attractive he is. There sure are a lot of pictures of this attractive person. Wait, what else has he been in? Oh, a BBC series?" 

[Ed. Note: Nearly all my crushes been on  BBC series.]

"...I guess I'll just watch that entire series now." 

By the way, that entire interlude usually takes about 30 minutes.

So no, I am not above an actor crush. It's just that sometimes I have the misfortune of actually meeting them.

Friday, September 27, 2013

"I Still Think, Maybe I'm Not Good At This": Graham Moore Outtakes

Cumberbatch As Alan Turing / Daily Mail 
Hello, Benedict Cumberbatch fans! Over on Buzzfeed I have an interview with Graham Moore, novelist and writer of "The Imitation Game," the Alan Turing biopic starring Benedict Cumberbatch. Here are some outtakes from my conversation with Graham in which we talk further about Benedict Cumberbatch, set etiquette and Benedict Cumberbatch. 

Benedict Cumberbatch! 

Thursday, July 25, 2013

Monty.

Monty came to us a little broken. He'd been shuttled around from rescue to rescue so often that any time a car door opened, he'd mournfully shuffle towards it, tail dragging like a canine Eeyore.

He was missing one of his big lower teeth, never made a peep, and didn't really know how to play. You'd throw a ball for him and he'd just stare it and then look up at you with these big brown eyes. He didn't care about anyone who only gave him passing attention. You had to put in your time with Monty to get affection from him, and affection from him was simple: he wanted to hold hands.

He'd come sit by you, and just rest his paw on your foot, or your leg. He didn't want you to scratch him or shake it, or anything but just sit there and hold his hand and maybe talk to him. There's no other way to say it: that dog was noble. That dog was Atticus Finch.

Our other dog Cleo, younger and more sprightly is a fine dog, a sweet dog, but... She's just a dog. She's not a soul who just happens to be currently in a dog costume. You throw the ball, she fetches it. Then you have to yell at her for a couple of minutes until she finally fucking drops it.

It took nearly three years for Monty to understand what "playing" meant. The first time he took a loping stride towards a ball I chucked, I immediately reported it to my dad. Monty didn't do it again for months. Instead, I would bring another ball, which he would happily keep in his jaws, right where that big lower tooth should be, and sit by me, paw on my foot, while I chucked another ball for the puppy.

One day at the beach, I tossed a tennis ball down the way for Cleo, who immediately lost sight of the thing and started digging for it about 20 feet away from its position in plain view. Lo, Monty pulled himself up onto his aging hips and loped down the beach with clear purpose. He nabbed that ball without Cleo noticing, and started back.

It was "Chariots of Fire."

It was the Olympic torch relay.

He trotted back, tail up, chest out and looked right up at me.

Reader, I burst into tears and threw my arms around him.

He kept that ball in his mouth the rest of the day, and sat by me through lunch and dinner, one paw on my foot, the whole while long.




Sunday, July 21, 2013

The Past Perfect

It wasn't until he suggested a second pitcher that I realized something maybe was happening. Years of platonic dinners hadn't yet dimmed my crush, but I'd made peace and figured that discussions about Batman over burritos was nothing to complain about. He asked me if I was seeing anyone, and I said no, I asked the same in return and his face told me he was embarrassed before he'd even said anything.

He was sort of, occasionally seeing this girl, he said, but couldn't be serious about her, since she's in her early 20s and, he cringed, an intern at the same company. She's great, he said (and I believed him) but they were "definitely not B.F./G.F.." I remember that moment because I remember thinking that a man closer to 40 than 30 was describing his romantic status to me in such terms.

He suggested we go to a second bar, and we did and then he suggested we go outside and kiss and we did. I slept alone and bought flowers for the table the next day.

Nearly a week later when he wrote to say how horribly guilty he felt, especially because his girlfriend had a troubled past, I felt a peculiar, short pang. Then I remembered how a teacher told me once that sometimes, on winding roads, you can tell how you should steer the car forward by only looking in the rearview mirror. I should never try it though, she warned me, because it's too dangerous; I could really hurt myself.