Saturday, January 29, 2011

Mancandy Saturday: Andrew Garfield

Or as I, and many others like to call him, Bambi.

Because he totally is! He stumbles around on his shaky, stalk-like legs, with his big moon eyes just gazing and gazing at you until you fall helplessly in love. Or helplessly in something, at any rate. The need to feed him handfuls of raisins or nuts or whatever the fuck it is deers eat, while petting him.

I would totally pet him. I would pet his wild maze of insane hair, until I went down the wrong follicle avenue and wound up facing a minotaur with nothing but a flimsy nightie and my feverish love of Andrew Garfield to protect me.

Which it wouldn't, because Andrew Garfield couldn't protect anything or anyone. Look at him, he can barely walk. I'd have to throw him over my shoulder like a saddlebag, and run like the wind so that we don't get gored by the bull-man that mysteriously lives in his hair. Though how both of us came to be running away from something in his own hair I've no idea.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Things I like about Andrew Garfield:

1. He does a lot of awkward things with his hands. As though he's holding a lot of imaginary items in front of his face. Hopefully, they're items we can use to fend of the Minotaur in his hair maze, otherwise we're in trouble.

2. He makes the most excrutiatingly perfect Tommy from Never Let Me Go. Seriously, it's like they carbon copied him out of Kazuo Ishiguro's brain. Or failing that, like they carbon copied him out of the file in my brain labelled "socially stunted total weirdo that somehow you still want to fook".

3. He's going to be Spiderman! Only without the requisite "his webslingers as a metaphor for nocturnal emissions dirty boy filthy boy yum". Booooooooo, I say.

4. His face juts out, weirdly. He's like the opposite of Robert Pattinson. He got the bits of face that Robert Pattinson didn't. He reminds me of how Natalie Portman looks at the end of Goya's Ghost, cos her jaw's been all smashed up. Look, this is what I mean:

See? It's like something's happened to his lower jaw. And now for the life in me I can't say what it is I like about that. I'm definitely not winning anyone over to the "Andrew Garfield Is Sexy Ok?" club, I know that much. Maybe it's just all about that Bambi thing again only it's a Bambi where his Mum got shot and then the hunter kind of shot half his face off, too, and now I have to give him soothing linament rubs and pin his jaw back together.

Jesus Christ, what am I saying??

5. After this, I can definitely say that I've crossed over into cougar town. I mean, he's three years younger than me. That makes me a cougar, right? And sometimes he looks so young that it makes me feel kind of queasy and wrong inside, until I put on Red Riding and stare at his sideburns and remind myself that he's actually nearly thirty.

6. And finally, my most favourite of all my man-crush tropes: "secretly a goer". Yeah, that's right. He looks like Bambi, but he nails that girl at the start of Red Riding like sex is going to cease existing tomorrow. Like he needs to hammer sex home, in case people start forgetting what it is. The kid can barely walk upright and keep his hands by his sides for more than thirty seconds, but he rode that chick like a pony and that's what I like to see.

I don't care if you can't walk. I don't mind if you stare at me gormlessly from behind that TV screen, Andrew Garfield. Stare as gormlessly as you like. Staring don't mean anything. Horniness means everything. Wild, abandoned, secret horniness, and the ability to hammer away for Britain.

I was wrong, Andrew Garfield. You could save me from the minotaur who lives in the maze of your hair. You could save me with the almighty and secretive power of your total sex.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

Neglectful Charlotte

So I've been kind of neglecting you of late, blog. Yeah, I know it. I can feel you always on the periphery of my mind, your sad little last dated post getting further and further away. Is it really over a week since I last loved you?

I'm so sorry, blog. I never meant to hurt you. I'm sorry that I made you cry. I didn't want to hurt you. I'm just...well. Not a jealous guy. I mean, you haven't given me anything to be jealous of, have you, blog? It's not like you're off having flings with other, better, more interesting blogs behind my back. Like that Justine Elyot, who's got this mammoth free read thing going on over there when you've just got...Paul Schneider.

God, I knew you'd turn this around on me, blog. It's not that you're a cheating hoor, it's that I'm not filling you up with satisfying content! I mean, don't you see how much that hurts me, blog? I try and I try and I try to come up with silly Mancandies and useful updates and sexy bits and pieces, and all you do is complain about it.

Well, what do you want me to do about it, blog? Write a post-modern self-referential bollocks post as though you're a real person and I'm a hateful jealous neglectful shrew?

Well fook you, cos I just did. Ha!

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Mancandy Tuesday: Paul Schneider

There's a little story behind this Mancandy. Well, not exactly a story. A story implies that it's interesting and you're going to be gripped, when really it's just another meandering load of old nonsense about my weird head-life. In other words, it's a bunch of stuff that never actually happened because the stuff that actually happens in my real life isn't worthy of discussion on the internet. Mostly it's just:

Ate some midget gems. Am now comprised entirely of E657594

Watched something then fell asleep with the menu song playing over and over. The Dexter one goes peeeeeyoooooo-yooo. Yoooooo-yooo. Peeeeeeyoooo-yooo. Yoo-yoooo.

Wrote some stuff. Almost destroyed laptop after passing out from exhaustion.

Almost destroyed Kindle. See above.

But I digress about my boring life. Back to this non-story from my head-life.

So, I almost started fancying Paul Schneider back in some year I can't remember. I think it was after watching The Family Stone, because in it he's adorable and just waiting for some girl to notice him and also I think he's a cop*, which is orsum. Everyone knows by now how much I like contrasts, and the contrast between tough cop and sweet guy is almost too much for my vagina to bear.

And yet somehow, I didn't progress into full blown man-lust. Just so we're clear, full-blown man lust occurs when my loins reach critical mass, and the CDC has to come and cordon me off in case I spread to other areas and turn perfectly reasonable women into foaming feral 28 Days Later-a-like creatures who attack at the slightest provocation.

You know, like, when a dude accidentally shows a bit of underpants as he bends down to pick up a ten pence piece.

But I never quite got to that stage, with Paul Schneider. I mean, he has everything I like. Check him out:

Insane eyebrows. Roguish stubble. Very dark. He's not that tall, but he gives the impression of tallness. There's even a slight hint of burly about him, which I love. Plus, he kind of looks like Zachary Quinto:

Only he's really, really heterosexual. Which I feel bad about listing as a plus point, but I can't deny that it's easier to imagine him boffing ladeez than it is Quinto. And that's important to me, because I write mainly about dudes boffing ladeez, as you all know.

But anyhoo, I seem to recall then having another mini-crush on Schneider during the winter of 2009**, after watching The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. In this film, he's this total man-slut (he often plays man-sluts, which is sometimes in his favour and sometimes not) who goes around seducing proper ladies while they're sat on toilets, and he calls himself an innamorato which is just the most sex-busting thing I've ever seen on screen.

He's fully clothed while he says it, and he doesn't even progress to fookin' this woman's brains out (though I have no doubt he could accomplish this task, should he so choose), and yet there is something so completely lustful and sexual about a hot rugged dirty cowboy saying that about himself that I can't even. I can't. Call the CDC.

And yet, I still did not promote Paul Schneider to the status of man-candy. He lasted a week, at most. I idly cast him in a few stories, then took him out. Time passed.

Then BLAM. I watched Parks and Recreation. Suddenly, I had acres and acres of Paul Schneider to run around in. I had hours and hours of him fumbling his way through weird romances and trying to better himself and although he never once calls himself something that I'm used to only hearing the female version of, he still finally got into my stable of man-candies. He's in the harem in my head, probably having a slightly sardonic and fairly miserable time.

While I write stories about a dude who looks a lot like him, seducing chicks with his enraged eyebrows and his strange bottom lip and oh, Paul Schneider. You're my innamorato.

*He's actually not- he's a paramedic. But the point still stands because he's a cop in my vagina.
**Date almost certainly made up.