Calvin Klein...THANK YOU.

Possibly NSFW, but very, very safe for the bedroom. Or kitchen. Or wherever you have a moment alone.

That would be tennis hottie, Fernando Verdasco (who isn't as hot as Rafa, but is Spanish so I'll take it), Mehcad Brooks (from True Blood and other stuff I haven't seen), Kellan Lutz (from Twilight, and the new 90210), and Hidetoshi Nakata (former Japanese soccer player.

no.words.

Yeah, I totally dropped the ball on the Olympics. Whoops. Let's not dwell on that, shall we? (Hope to do semi-recap post this weekend, so fret not. Like any of you are out there fretting besides spam commenters, but whatevs.)

Let's enjoy Shakira's new video for "Gypsy" starring my boyfriend, Rafa, looking hotter-than-anyone-ever-in-the-entire-universe-oh-my-god-i-need-a-cold-shower.

This blog pretty well sums it up.

Shakira, you are my hero. (PS Glad you got the memo that my favorite outfit of all time on any man is t-shirt in jeans and/or no shirt and jeans. Again...HERO.)

I Can't Help Myself.. . .

. . . I love you and nobody else.

Rafa lost last week in the semi-finals at Cincinatti. This photo is from the quarters and I love it. How can one man be that beautiful? Can't wait to see him in person at US Open in about 10 days!!!!

Pic via Forty Deuce.

God Loves Me

Who needs a real boyfriend when her fake boyfriend looks like this?

Oh how I've missed tennis with Rafa in the mix. Welcome back, boo, and kick ass next week in Montreal.

Pic via Forty Deuce.

UPDATE: Well, shit. Apparently there won't be much ass-kicking for Rafa, except on the receiving end, in the near future. Report from his Montreal practice essentially says he's back, but he sucks at the moment. Apparently two months off will do that to a tennis player. But let's concentrate on the positives. Like his stomach. 

New Favorite Singer

Fucking priceless.



Did you see those hips shake? Did you see the COWBOY move? DID YOU, Megan?

Just when I think I have all the love I can possibly have for him, I find more awesome.

This Has Gone Too Far

Dear Victoria's Secret,

Have you been reading my blogs? Did you find out that I have an underwear fetish? Do you know that I'm dying for winter to end and warm weather to whisk me away from the cold, harsh reality of February?

Because you keep sending me those damn catalogues and emails with their sales and their bikinis and their pretty, pretty panties and their flowy dresses. And I. Well.

I WANT ALL OF IT. ALL OF IT NOW!!

But did you notice that the economy is in the dumps? That I am a public interest lawyer? That I have already spent one month's disposable income on those damn new "supersoft" Angels underwear that have stolen my heart?

I CANNOT AFFORD YOUR STUFF. No matter how much I want it.

So please. Please. I'm begging you.  Stop already.  For at least one week? Maybe just one week without tempting me?  I can't take it. I don't have the will power.  If you don't stop I'll be homeless. A very well-pantied homeless, but homeless nonetheless.

Oooh. But I might also be skinnier because can't afford food due to VS fetish. This might work out after all.  Nevermind. Carry on.

Forever yours,
Nik

Destiny Calls

Disclaimer #1: For the sake of NaBloPoMo, which values everyday posting over adherence to a theme, I am suspending the "sport" theme for the evening (unless you want to call being a groupie a "sport"). I present to you an account I wrote last week about my drive two hours away to see my one and only Conor. Originally I planned to edit it before posting, but currently I am nursing a pounding headache.

Disclaimer #2: I find this post highly gratifying, as I was there, and I love Conor. I realize, however, that it may bore the panties off the rest of you. If this is the case, at least try the second YouTube. I think you'll find it at least somewhat amusing.

Disclaimer #3: Also, midway through I switch to Bridget-speak, then randomly switch back. Verb tenses are not uniform either. Apologies. My brain is too fried to care right now.

Without further ado:

I may be one of the most indecisive people in the entire universe, but one thing is for damn sure. Once my mind is made up, I stick to it. It is the rare goal that I do not achieve, and last night's concert was really no different.

On the way to the show, I had this intense feeling of recklessness. I almost felt in my bones that driving two hours for a concert was a bad idea. Quite literally, I thought I was a little insane. As I'm driving I'm shaking my head, sort of throwing my hands up at the situation, like a father would a child who is too hardheaded to listen and will just have to learn her lesson on her own terms.

Before I even set off, the signs pointed toward staying put, resting, and getting things done. I was in court in another county until 2:30pm, didn't get back to the home office until about 3. Even then, there were a million things on my to-do list. I perservered, left around 4:30, and decided that I would depart for the show around 6 or 6:30, putting me there at 8 or 8:30, with the show starting at 9.

Double-checking my directions as I'm relaxing after walking the dog, I notice that the show time is 8, not door time. Door time is 7, about one hour away. Well, shit. At least there are two opening bands, but the cost-benefit analysis is starting to swing pretty far in the "don't bother" direction.

Still hopped in the car and headed along my merry way.

Not much incident on the drive, but thanks Google Maps for failing me for the second time in one week. They told me to get off on I-95 NORTH instead of SOUTH, which had me turning around and adding an extra 15 minutes to my time of arrival.

No worries, I was in zen-like Conor anticipation and all that mattered was that I arrived.

Finally getting the right exit, I find the theatre fairly quickly, as well as the parking deck. Except wait. Can't enter the parking lot from this street, and the next street is one-way in the opposite direction.

Go around ass to get to elbow of entrace to parking lot. Drive past entrace because I don't think it's the right lot.

Drive around ass to get to elboe of entrace to parking lot again. Find a spot, grab my $$ and ID, and away I go!

Exit parking lot to find that indeed, I was right. Is the wrong parking lot. Is not the parking lot behind the theatre as I had intended, rather, it is an extra 2 blocks away. Nevermind. Will think of anti-mugging strategy after euphoria of the show. Must. Get. To. Venue.

Collect tickets from will-call and dash inside to relieve my bladder. At the very moment I unbutton my jeans I curse vehemently inside my head. Cell phone left in purse in car. Insert favorite curse word, I said them all. This means:
* No pictures
* No video
* No texting/calling during band changes (read: awkard standing alone for extended periods of time)
* No back-up in case of mugging on the way to car parked in semi-bumfuckville

At that moment I really wonder if I was meant to be here or not. Decide that all is not lost, and now will just enjoy the show rather than bother with phone. Will be fine.

Find a place in the crowd with a decent view. Decide that over there looks better. Go to Over There. Over There is a GIANT FOREST OF TALL PEOPLE. I am so not kidding you. I went from a clear view of short people to a bunch of dudes over 6 feet tall. Decide to move On The Other Side.

On The Other Side is pretty good. There is a couple that hugs for the entire duration of the first band, but whatever. Who am I to judge?

During the changeover, I move progressively closer until I'm around 5-6 rows deep from the stage. As I'm waiting for Conor to come out, I realize that EVERYONE around me is underage. Literally, they have the X on their hands and the under-21 wristband. Oh. God. Am too old for this. Where are the people my age? (I have no idea - I never found an answer to this question.)

Conor comes out and my immediate thought is that he's hooked on heroin. Dude is fucking skinny, but beyond that he looks ill. His face is sort of emaciated and he's all pale. He's either hooked on the stuff, or he's hella sick. I remember from looking at Youtubes of this tour that he's looked like this before, decide my soulmate has a drug problem and then get both angry and very depressed.

For a good 45mins to an hour the show is only slightly above average. The energy in the venue is all whack. The band seems down, the crowd is too young and self-conscious to dance, and Conor is, well, looking like he needs a fix.

Then he comes on to play "Milk Thistle." For some reason this is the song I've been waiting for all. night. long. It's not my favorite off the album, but it fits my mood and it's stuck in my head. It's a quiet, powerful tune, and the crowd grows silent. I'm just really entering the trance one goes into in these moments when WHAT THE FUCK. Why is there a damn balloon falling on my head??!!

The bitches basically right behind me are giggling and talking and getting mad at me for not playing their stupid balloon game. They won't shut up. Conor starts to glare. I want to hide under my shoe.

Despite their attempts on two more occassions to invigorate the lame balloon-tap game, it finally stops. Their mouths however, they do not. I want to strangle them. They have all but ruined the song I came to hear.

You can see the balloon a couple of times in this video. Fucking stupid balloon.

I keep my cool, take deep breaths, and tell myself that this has just been one of those times. Not every concert can be orgasms and rainbows. Sometimes it's just going to be pretty good, maybe even just ok. That's fine. That's life. At least you had this opportunity.

After "Milk Thistle" they play maybe one or two more, then exit. While we await the encore, I feel my eyelids starting to close. I half-heartedly debate leaving now, but I know that's really not an option. No way am I leaving early.

They tease us for awhile, but eventually they take the stage and begin the encore with one of my top 2 favorite songs on the new album: "Lenders in the Temple" - another song that you just need to be still and absorb and take in. Behind me they start that same shit again with the talking, and before Conor even utters the first word, I turn around and "Shshh" them. If that didn't work, I was going to get violent, but it seems the little shits at least can respect their elders.

From that point on, the show lifted itself up from average and into awesome. I don't know why Conor saved his energy for the encore, but oh hell, it was fantastic.

I'm already having a blast shaking my groove thing and enjoying the show when he starts to play "I Don't Want to Die in the Hospital." Half-way through the song he starts to take his boots off.

Then he rolls up his pants.

Then he takes off his jacket.

Then he starts to unbutton. his. shirt. I'm thinking he's just loosening the top, but oh no, he goes all the way to the very last button.

Then he does this:

(Not on the video: the microphone/jumprope that he throws is moments later picked up by a venue crew member and placed back into the mic holder. . .only for Conor to simply throw it down in favor of the second one. Hilarious.)

And I realize why I have come. I know that this is the reason I felt compelled to be here in the face of all signs pointing towards staying home. This absurd, possibly drunk, possibly high, possibly just plain crazy display of excitement in the middle of playing a song is a once-in-a-lifetime experience (unless of course, this is his new schtick). All with his shirt unbuttoned and naked chest with nifty talisman thing on display. (For the record: he later on rolled his sleeves up, and there were no noticable track marks on his forearms, which is good. Maybe he's just got a bad cold....)

Sigh. When do I get to see him again?

---------------------------------------------------
Update:
The entire "Hospital" song and strip-tease can be seen in the video below.  The clothes start coming off around 4:00, a minute or so later he attempts his first jumprope. Subsequent failed tries until the finale, which is the short clip above.

Olympics: Day 15-2

Longest article ever about sex and the Olympics.

I would really love to watch a documentary about the Olympic Village. Does that make me a huge dork? I don't care.

Go for the Gold!

As you may remember, tonight is the night. I'm going to see my Conor in concert.

I have been more than a little bummed because, for various valid reasons, my original group of four companions has dwindled down to one: Me.

I've made some last-minute phone calls, but the reality of the situation is that A) it's a Sunday night, B) it's more than an hour's drive away, and C) not too many people in this little town have heard of Conor, much less willing to stay up super late on work-night and shell out $25 in this economy to see him in person.

And well, we know that not going is simply out of the question.

So, my faithful readers, I have formulated a plan. Since I'm going to there alone, may as well try to sleep with him. Yep. You read that right. The timing is perfect. No boyfriend wondering where I've wandered off to, no friends rubbing their eyes desperate to get back home - just me, slutting it up trying to get as close as I can to the famous person I most adore.

Of course the chances of this actually happening are basically zero, but what the hell? For the sake of blogdom, why not give it a shot? See how far I can get.

Check back next week for a full report, although let's be honest, we know I'm not one to kiss and tell ; )

(Wish me luck! And keep your fingers crossed that I don't get mugged walking back to my car in the parking deck!)