Hello, darlings. Did you think I would leave this party without dropping you a line? I know how you like to hear from me. I know how you like to hear my posh, can’t-be-bothered growl. I know how you wish you were hearing it right before I tie you to the bed. Do you need a moment? I’ll wait.
I’m in Paris, for an event for Bulgari. Julianne Moore was here too – she looks like hell. She’s in dire need of a good “Cliving” you know? I know, I know, she has a young partner and she’s a happy mom and everything. But I swear I saw drool coming out of her mouth when she saw me. The drool dripped onto this hideous outfit she was wearing:
Still, wonderful actress, and a friend. That’s why you love me – because I have age-appropriate lady-friends. I’m never trying to sauce it up with some barely legal starlet. Trust me, there were only old whores at this event, and they loved their piece of The Clive. Ha!
Do you like the way I lean, ladies? How about the way I give you my patented little half-smirk? God, I love when your eyes crawl all over me. That’s why I keep showing up for these promotional events. Pretty soon I’ll make you forget all about that Jon Hamm motherf‘er. Yes, I’m a petty, jealous bitch when it comes to your affection. Here, let me graze my crotch while you watch.
Do you love it? I see you drooling. Get in line, ladies.
Hello, my darlings. I’m in Spain, yet again. This visit is for GQ Spain’s Man of the Year ceremony, held in some fabulous Spanish hotel in Madrid. The cool white sheets on the hotel bed feel so good against my naked skin. Sure, I’ll hold on for you to finish yourself off. We haven’t even gotten to the part about my gorgeous bulge in these pants. Oh, you’re ready again? Sure, I’ll wait. Let me help you out: your tits look gorgeous today. You‘re done? That was fast. Lovely. Moving on.
You might be wondering why I seem to only do photo op events in Spain. I don’t really know. Maybe I just love the country. Maybe the event is sponsored by Chivas, and they paid for my second home. Maybe I have a mistress squired away in a Madrid pied-à-terre. Maybe I’m just waiting for you to join me in this lovely city so I can hand-feed you lovely little tapas before you attempt to take off this fabulous velveteen jacket with your teeth. All are solid possibilities.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy these photos. I’m giving this gorgeous, smug little smile just for you, my love.
Hello, ladies. I heard you were doing an all-American Hot Guy Friday, which means No Clive, because I’m so British and sexy. So I decided: Why limit the Clive Love? So I threw on some clothes and went out to a club, just so there would be new photos of me. All for you, ladies. Because I know you can’t do without a weekly dose of Clive.
I apologize for looking so grumpy and jowly in these photos. I know it’s not really a problem, though. I could have jowls the size of Texas and you ladies would still drop like flies if you came within 100 yards of the Clive Dong. Perhaps I’m a little drunk in these photos. You know what happens when I get drunk? Anything. I get flirty, I get dirty, and I ask strange women to take off their clothes. I’ll wait while you pick yourself off the floor.
Note the wedding ring, though. Because I am happily married to a nice girl and we have daughters. Just knowing that I’m in a good marriage and that I’m a good dad makes you want me more, right? I know that too. Because if I was the kind of man who went out EVERY night, pimping at some club for the latest hot young things, you wouldn’t want me as much. I know this. So look, but don’t touch, ladies.
Hello, ladies. It’s been a while, I know. Wait… what’s that? Can someone please get this woman off of me? She’s humping my leg. There we go, sweetheart. On you go. Yes, I’ll take your panties, thank you. Now, let’s move on, shall we?
So, yes, here I am in… where am I? Madrid. I’m not one of those dudes who show up for the opening of an envelope. I only attach my name to important things, like serious dramas, or a line of sparkly vibrators. Just kidding! Wow, that was an audible gasp! Anyway, this event in beautiful Madrid is for Chivas. If you want to get all liquored up and throw your panties at me, please, I beg you, get drunk of Chivas 12. The bottle was designed by a young male artist… here he is:
Nice, right? I’m sure you’re imagining the two of us kissing right now. You’re imagining my hand grazing his thigh…yes, I know. Anway, you see, I support the arts. Especially when supporting the arts also means chicks are going to get all liquored up. No, I jest. I’m much too good for that. I want you to be sober for what I’m going to do to you. Ha! Got you again, didn’t I?
So I’m at this event, and I’m working my gorgeous little tuft of coal-black chest hair and giving my best “would you like the handcuffs?” look to the camera, and suddenly, they hand me this beautiful girl named Eugenia Silva.
She’s a Spanish model, and in some of these photos she’s clutching me. Don’t worry, that always happens. Women can’t help it. I could ask to borrow a thousand dollars, and wind up in an orgy of supermodels. Of course I might be shooting Miss Silva my very special “Are you wearing panties?” look that I reserve for very special women. But that doesn’t mean anything, and you should definitely NOT fly to Spain and hunt her down with an automatic weapon, okay? There’s still plenty of Clive to go around, ladies.
Zac Efron is making headlines this weekend because he debuted a completely new, rather adult look at the Deauville Film Festival, where he’s promoting Charlie St. Cloud. The beard is very nice – I didn’t think Zac had enough testosterone to grow a substantial beard like that, but good for him. I’m saying “substantial” to be nice to the kid – I don’t think he’s capable of having a filled-out beard, but this little “extended goatee” is nice. And it does make him look much, much older. Tom Cruise is probably weeping right now – his pretty little motorcycle buddy is all grown up.
There have been some other sightings of hot(ter) guys this weekend too – especially at the Toronto Film festival, where it looks like it’s hot guy central. My favorite? James McAvoy, clean-shaven and baby-faced and so, so pretty… there‘s a special appearance by Robert Redford too!
Colin Firth! He’s been everywhere in Toronto, apparently.
Clive Owen has been all over Venice and Toronto the past few days, and there are so many hot photos of him. Praise the Lord. These are just a few:
And some photos from The Town boys promoting their film at TIFF. Ben Affleck, Jeremy Renner, and my lover (and Ben’s lover, apparently) Jon Hamm.
Hello, bitches. Did you know that I’m in Scotland right now? I was just sitting in my London home, thinking about how Scottish ladies needed a little taste of The Clive Goodness, and so I packed my favorite tuxedo and jetted off. Look at the way I’m standing by this little piano. Doesn’t that make you hot? Look at the smug expression on my face? That’s because I know you’re picturing me naked right now. Aren’t you? You’re imagining your tongue on my chest RIGHT NOW, aren’t you?
I’m used to that. That’s why I do these dorky photo-ops beside pianos. I want to see how far I can take My Sexy. By the way, Prince Charles is around here somewhere. He’s wearing a kilt, for God’s sake. Do you know what would happen if I wore a kilt? Ladies would be dropping like flies. They would be crawling on the floor trying get a look at my biscuits. And that, ladies, is why I don’t wear kilts. Only tuxedos and suits for me, but I do make an effort to look dorky, just to see what I can get away with. As it turns out, I can do pretty much anything and ladies will still throw their panties at me in the street. I could do a duet with Justin Bieber and still get laid by a different woman every day for the next twenty years. But I don’t want that – I’m happily married. I have two daughters as well. I’m very happy. So all of this – the photos, The Sexy, the smug, dirty, awesome little smile playing on my lips, my slightly disheveled hair, looking like I just threw this tux on right after a naughty go-round, without even having the time or inclination to put on a pair of boxers – well, that’s all for you. Because I am a humanitarian.
You’re welcome.
Love, Clive
P.S. Did you want a preview of my sexy Bulgari ads, or are you already nearing a Clive Coma? Because I can wait to show you… no? Okay, here’s a little taste. You might need to get a towel.
Clive Owen on Sept. 5, 2010. Credit: Bauer-Griffin. Bulgari ads courtesy of Clive‘s fansite, Clive-Owen.org.
Clive Owen and Catherine Keener are two of my favorite actors. They’re both lovely and talented and they generally do interesting, challenging work. But after seeing this trailer for the film Trust, I’m kind of thinking they should fire their respective agents. This crap… as CB said, it looks like a made-for-TV movie. And not even a good-quality one, it looks like some crap for Lifetime. Guess who directed it? David Schwimmer. For real! As Dustin Rowles at Pajiba said, “I don’t know what kind of amazing bee-jays this man gives…”
God, why did Clive do this f-cking movie? Why don’t Hollywood directors get it? Women will pretty much watch anything with Clive, but they should throw us a bone and give us some Clive full-frontal nudity, y’know? Something where he looks rugged and dirty, and growls lines like “You need to take off your panties right now” and “Would you like a backrub, darling?”
Back to this turd of a movie. Gawker calls it “the dramatic equivalent of watching a ‘To Catch a Predator’ segment on Dateline, but with Clive Owen instead of Chris Hansen.” Pajiba made the interesting point that the Brits seem to love David Schwimmer, and maybe that’s why Clive signed on? But that still doesn’t explain why Catherine Keener did it. Maybe Schwimmer had some sort of blackmail scheme against her. Or maybe she just wanted Clive to touch her. So I’ll forgive Catherine for this one. I mean, just look at him.
Clive on March 22, 2009, October 21, 2009, and February 27, 2010. Credit: WENN.
Last week I threw up (seriously) at these photos of Clive Owen on location in New Zealand, filming The Killer Elite With Jason Statham. He had a 1970s porno ‘stache, and it was the worst thing ever. Our once beautiful Clive no longer looked rugged, naughty and moist (‘tis how he looks in my mind). However, bippety boppety, one week later and he shaved the f-cker off! HURRAY!!! These photos are of Clive on Tuesday in Milan, looking dashing and handsome and naughty and moist (mmm…) at an event for Bulgari. He’s the face of Bulgari’s new cologne. Of course. Clive would be my choice if I was looking for a Man to be the face of a cologne. By the way, I nicknamed my vagina “cologne”. Wait, that joke didn’t work… nevermind. Anyway, Clive? While you’re there, can you pick my up some fabulous jewelry? And then bring it to me here, I’ll be waiting. While he was in Milan, he talked to Esquire – about the World Cup, and about smelling like a man. I think I just wet myself, seriously.
At last night’s Bulgari Man fragrance launch here, the courtyard of the Bulgari Hotel transformed into a kind of scientific pathway to arouse the nose, a walking laboratory of cologne combinations. In between drinks — drinks that in more than one case matched its drinker’s outfit (see photos below) — we walked through displays to see what actually made a new scent pop like a citrus, and for possibly the first time ever we actually know what “earthy” means. The result was surprisingly light and airy.
We asked our pal Clive Owen, after chatting about England’s World Cup performance so far (not so thrilled) and extremely strong coffee (apparently it’s killer in Melbourne, where he’s been shooting), for his take: “I’m thrilled. I really like it — for real,” said the face of the Bulgari Men campaign. “It’s fresh and elegant, very tasteful. I have a problem with a lot of men’s fragrances because they are very strong. Somebody somewhere thinks that masculine means powerful smells, and I find them overbearing and not very pleasant.”
So we went to try it on ourselves, and Mr. Owen was telling no lie. The scent lingers, but in a subtle way, mellowing nicely. Which fits with his philosophy on men’s fragrances and style: “I don’t like it when people are trying too hard, that goes for clothes, for acting, for everything. It’s just not good when it seems like you’re making too much of an effort.”
Jesus, I’m seriously not going to get any sleep tonight, I’m just going to be playing out a sexual fantasy of Clive spanking me while speaking in Italian – over and over and over. Isn’t he speaking in Italian to the Bulgari people? The Italian dude asks him something in Italian and Clive responds in Italian, I think. If you want to get obsessive about it, there’s this video too. The Clive part doesn’t start until about a minute in:
This man. Good lord. One last piece of Clive news – he just recently signed on to play Ernest Hemingway in an HBO movie, Hemingway & Gellhornn. Nicole Kidman will be playing Martha Gellhorn, Hemingway’s third wife. If Clive has to have pretend sex with Nicole’s frozen face, I might cry.
Clive in Milan, Italy on June 22, 2010, for Bulgari. Credit: Bauer-Griffin. Additional pic courtesy of Esquire here.
It’s weird how one little line of fuzz is the difference between “hot sexy rough fantasy with a delicious accent” and “ew, gross, 1970s budget porn star”. Such is Clive Owen’s fate. To be fair to him, this facial hair monstrosity is for a movie, The Killer Elite, which he is filming in Australia right now. The film also stars Jason Statham (yum) and Robert DeNiro (yum – yeah, I said it). Clive is playing “he will play the leader of a vigilante group fighting to protect the families of SAS agents…[Ed. Note: … with a porno mustache].” So Clive isn’t even the lead! Damn it. F-cking character work best supporting mustache bullsh-t.
And that’s about it. There’s no Clive Owen gossip kicking around. No scandals, no affairs, no hidden love children (thus far). He keeps his sh-t tight. The mustache is the only hint of scandal, and it’s only a scandal in my mind just because he’s so pretty and manly, and I hate that I feel nothing for him with pornstache. Would I still hit it? Would I ride that fug pornstache into the sunset? Eh. If the mustache was standing right in front of me, and I could hear It speak, and I could see Its beautiful green-hazel eyes, yes, I probably would ride the ‘stache. But I wouldn’t put my mouth on it.
F-ck, maybe I would. Damn it!
Clive Owen in Australia on June 15, 2010. Credit: Fame.
The only way this could be better is if we could hear Clive Owen growl these beautiful words. Sigh… anyway, Clive does some work with a charity called The Aegis Trust. The Trust “campaigns against crimes against humanity and genocide” and operated the Kigali Memorial Centre in Rwanda and the Holocaust Memorial and Educational Centre in the UK. They also do a lot of war-crimes/genocide education in the UK and Canada. Basically, it sounds like a really amazing charity. Clive did some work with The Aegis Trust last year, on the “Candles for Rwanda” project, and since then, Clive’s daughters kept asking him to take them to Rwanda. Because Clive is such an amazing man, he raises genocide-conscious young women. *SWOON*
So Clive traveled to Rwanda with his daughters, and then wrote about his trip for the trust’s site and the London Times:
‘When are we going to Rwanda?” my 13-year-old daughter kept asking. She wanted to go there as soon as I was asked to visit the country to show solidarity with its people. She wasn’t asking in a naive, childish way; she knew that it was a serious thing, marking the anniversary of the Rwandan genocide. Initially, the scheduling wasn’t working out, but Hannah kept on reminding me.
And so, almost a year later — thanks to her and the Aegis Trust — I’m standing in the Kigali Genocide Memorial, trying to get my head around what happened in 1994, what that means for Rwanda today and what, if anything, it might mean for the rest of us.
Sixteen years can feel like a lifetime. But when you’re facing the fallout of a genocide, as I discovered in Rwanda, it can feel like no time at all.
It’s very hard for an individual to take on the concept of a million people dying in 100 days. But as soon as you listen to one person’s story you start to relate on a human level, and you begin to realise just how devastating it was. The centre at Kigali was at its most powerful when it got personal.
A few days later I’m sitting in Winifred’s front room. Her home is a rudimentary affair, involving mud walls and a thatched roof, but it’s fairly standard in a country where, despite astonishing economic progress, most people still earn little more than £1 a day. But the emptiness in her eyes tells you that no amount of material progress will solve what’s eating this woman.
Pregnant during the genocide, Winifred gave birth after being raped, beaten and left for dead. She was unable to protect her newborn baby, and the child was dragged away and eaten by dogs. Today she has Aids from the rape, and is unable to support herself without charity, because of the loss of breadwinners in her family during the genocide.
Her son, then 10 years old, witnessed everything. He now has enormous psychological problems. It’s little wonder. In Rwanda, where psychological support is an unaffordable luxury, the need is overwhelming.
For the sake of Rwanda’s future, there is no question that reconciliation is the only way forward. At the same time, survivors such as Winifred are living almost next door to perpetrators. It’s ridiculously naive to think that a victim of the genocide can just bury what happened to them and move on. Reconciliation can’t be rushed. It’s going to take time, sensitivity, careful handling and proper education.
The danger is that with all the tragedies happening around the world, people think of the Rwandan genocide as something that’s over. From what I saw, however, it is happening; it’s not a past thing. Its consequences are clearly spilling from one generation to the next. We can’t restore what was destroyed, but we can — and we should — acknowledge that suffering and help survivors to pick up the pieces. It’s not all doom and gloom, though. Rwanda is a stunningly beautiful country, and there’s a palpable sense of hope for the future.
It doesn’t feel like a cynical place, which is incredible, considering what happened. Going to Rwanda has changed my life in some ways. The impact of those five days is still reverberating around me, and it’s become part of everything I do. Because it’s one thing to hear about things, it’s another to be there and see it and smell it, and witness the people who have lived it.
The overriding feeling I came away with was not that there was a group of awful people doing terrible things during that time, it’s that we, as human beings, have the potential to do it. You don’t have to have an evil disposition to get involved in the horrors of something like this.
People there were swept up into doing such things that, years later, they are still asking themselves why. To try to have a level of understanding of that is hugely important. It’s not about them and us. We have the potential to be those people. It’s a situation that develops that you have to be incredibly careful about.
Today we would probably still let a situation like the Rwandan genocide happen all over again somewhere else. To me, that’s the tragedy of it — and one reason why the work of genocide prevention is so important.
Jesus… wouldn’t you love to hear him growl that? I mean, yes, I comprehend what he’s writing about and it’s sad and devastating and hopeful and we need to pay more attention… but seriously, there’s no bigger turn-on for me than a hot dude (and the occasional hot lady) talking public policy, or international war crimes or anything involving words beyond “yeah” and “you know”. Thus, I watch Rachel Maddow when The Nation’s Christopher Hayes is on (they both make me swoon, but not like Clive).
Oh, I found the PSA Clive did last year! He doesn’t say anything, he just lights a candle on his burning loins.
