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Oh No They Didn't! - LiveJournal.com

older | 1 | .... | 518 | 519 | (Page 520) | 521 | 522 | .... | 4830 | newer

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    The main squeeze of openly gay NFL player Michael Sam comes from a family of Midwest mobsters.
    Vito Cammisano, the hunky 23-year-old former collegiate swimmer, is the grandson of the late Mafia boss William (Willie the Rat) Cammisano. His father, Gerlarmo (Jerry) Cammisano, 60, followed in the family’s shady business and ended up doing 14 months in prison for running a Kansas City-based gambling ring, according to records. But on Saturday the Cammisano name became part of a feel-good sports story of the year when Sam became the first openly gay player drafted by an NFL team as Vito proudly stood at his side.

    After breaking down in tears when he got the news that his dreams were realized, Sam hugged and kissed Cammisano on the lips as ESPN’s cameras were rolling. “Have a great week and Go Rams!” Vito Cammisano wrote in an email to the Daily News Monday, referring all questions to Sam’s agent Joe Barkett. There is no evidence that Cammisano has ever been involved with the Civella crime family of Kansas City like his grandfather.


    Here's a look at the Cammisano family's mafia members. By all reports, he’s a stand-up guy. A 2013 graduate of the University Missouri with a degree in communications, Cammisino swam competitively for Mizzou from 2009 to 2012. His aunt, Cathy Nigro, told The News, “He’s been a pleasant, pleasant boy all his life.” But his grandfather and father chose a far different road. Willie the Rat Cammisano was the boss of the Civella crime family until his death 1995. In 1980, he made headlines for refusing to answer a Senate committee’s questions about mob crimes in Kansas City, Mo. During the 1980 Senate hearing, Fred Harvey Bonadonna, whose father was whacked by the mob, testified about overhearing his dad and William the Rat talk about murder. “I knew both from my father and others that Willie was called Willie the Rat because he killed people and stuck them in the sewers so the rats could eat them,” Bonadonna told the committee. “He doesn’t like the name. I doubt that anybody ever called him that to his face.”

    Bondonna went into the government witness protection program after testifying against Willie the Rat in an 1978 extortion case.Vito Cammisano’s dad pleaded guilty in 2011 to federal charges he ran a $3.5 million illegal sports betting ring. Jerry Cammisano was sentenced to 14 months in prison and ordered to forfeit $201,137, according to records.Meanwhile, Sam’s leap to the NFL was hailed by President Obama major sports breakthrough and praised by LGBT groups.But Miami Dolphins player Don Jones was paying the price for calling the kiss between Sam and Cammisano “horrible” on Twitter.The Dolphins fined and banned defensive back from team activities until he undergoes sensitivity training. Jones, 23, released a statement apologizing to Sam and the Dolphins for “the inappropriate comments that I made” on social media.


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    Justin Bieber took his mom to the Clippers game and dinner yesterday to celebrate Mother's Day...

    more repetitive pics at the source (tw for marky mark and floyd mayweather)

    also, social media posts by both of them:

    Enjoying Clippers game w my favorite man for Mother's Day. Love you @justinbieber xoxo

    Took my mom to the game.. She's more focussed on the food :p

    he also posted a throw back picture:

    justinbieber: Happy mothers day mama and all the other Amazing mothers out there :) #throwback

    and finally a post dedicated to his mom:

    justinbieber: My mom has taught me how to love, forgive and believe. She is my everything ♛

    both are on his ig

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    Michael Alig’s First Week of Freedom, after 17 Years of Prison

    “This hug is for your mother,” I whispered embracing Michael Alig, the former “king of the club kids” after he emerged from a prison truck at the entrance to Mid-State Correctional Facility, in Marcy, New York, last Monday. “I can’t believe this is really happening!” He was finally being released, after serving 17 years for manslaughter, for the death and dismemberment of Andre “Angel” Melendez, after a drug-fueled argument one night in 1996. Alig, now 48, smiled and blinked in the sunlight.
    Suddenly: “Michael!” Astro and Scotto, two ex–club kids, nudged me aside, while a third guy videotaped and snapped photos of the confused-looking Alig.
    “Hi!” exclaimed Astro. “Oh, and I see you already have a boyfriend! Did you [sleep with] him in prison?” Alig looked mortified. Standing behind him was a cute, straight 26-year-old man who was also being freed. He and Michael had bonded that morning, after the prisoner said, “I think someone famous is getting out today—they said there’s a van full of press outside.” Michael ended up inviting him along for our four-hour journey back to Manhattan. The guy’s name was Mike, “but his Facebook name is Rico Suave!” Alig told me, delighted.
    As we walked to our van, Alig whispered: “Why are they here?” He claimed hadn’t heard from either Astro or Scotto in more than a decade. I just shook my head.
    Alig’s prison release was originally going to be somewhat low-key: I’d pick him up in a Zipcar, we’d get dinner in NYC with some of his loved ones, and then head up to his old roommate Ernie Glam’s apartment in the Bronx, where Alig would be moving. But then the Hollywood production company World of Wonder apparently wanted to fly in James St. James, writer of the book Disco Bloodbath, basis for the movie Party Monster (both about Alig) from L.A., for a filmed, multi-day reunion; Ramon Fernandez, director of the upcoming documentary Glory Daze: The Life and Times of Michael Alig, asked if he could shoot Michael for his first two weeks of freedom; The New York Times requested to ride along with everyone for his release. The production company rented a 15-person van for the occasion.
    Alig, Rico, and I climbed in. Outside we could see Fernandez being questioned by a pissed-off prison official: no big cameras were allowed to film on prison property.
    “How do you feel being free, Michael?” I asked, excitedly. We’d become close over the past decade, after a magazine asked me to interview him, for an article coinciding with the release of Party Monster. I’d thought Alig was an intriguing, complex person, and he seemed to have genuine remorse about killing Angel. After two interviews I’d agreed to help him with his autobiography, Aligula.
    “I feel like I’m about to be re-arrested!” Alig said.
    A prison truck had pulled in front of our van, facing us, and a hardened corrections officer wagged her finger and yelled, “They told me not to let you leave!” A second truck parked beside us.
    “They’re blocking us in!” Alig exclaimed.
    “Oh man, this is crazy,” I heard behind me. I looked back at Rico, who was wearing a rosary. He smiled sweetly.
    After a few stressful minutes, we were allowed to leave. “This is an iPhone,” I said, showing Alig as we raced along Interstate 90. For the past 18 months I’d been posting tweets he’d given me over the phone, so I taught him how to tweet for himself:

    At a rest stop, Alig tried Starbucks for the first time: “So decadent!” Then he and I took a selfie in front of a tree with large purple blossoms. “It’s so pretty—springtime! New beginnings!” Michael gushed. “It feels like being reborn again: everything is new and unusual.” In Manhattan, St. James and his crew waited outside the restaurant Almond in the Flat Iron district. “I’m nervous he’ll think I look fat and old,” Alig told me.
    “But he’s your friend,” I said. “And your skin looks great because you’ve been out of the sun for 17 years.”
    The reunion went well (“He’s the one who looks fat and old!” Alig joked), and we all sat down for Alig’s first fancy dinner in almost two decades. “It’s so weird tasting spices again,” Michael said, digging into his pan-roasted arctic char.
    He reminisced, until a World of Wonder employee/handler said, “No dessert—we have to get Michael to the Bronx!” His parole stipulated he had to be home by eight.
    “I feel like I did when I first arrived in 1984,” Alig said, back in the van and staring out at the shimmering skyline. “Like the city is full of potential and totally unwelcoming at the same time.”
    On Tuesday and Wednesday, Alig and I were in near constant contact—partially because he kept butt-dialing me with the old Android phone I’d lent him. His schedule was crazy as he met with his state and federal parole officers, a mental-health counselor and a Medicaid employee, sat with reporters for interviews, enquired about writing jobs, searched for a nonprofit that would let him volunteer; talked to galleries about showing his prison paintings . . . and continued filming.
    By Thursday morning, I noticed Alig smelled pretty bad. “I forgot to take a shower!” he said. “I’m used to the prison telling me, ‘You have to shower at nine A.M.,’ and now it’s hard to remember everything—to clean my clothes, brush my teeth, keep track of my keys, eat lunch.” I made him bathe at St. James’s hotel later that day, before World of Wonder filmed him watching Party Monster for the first time.
    On Thursday afternoon, I scrolled through some of the extremely positive (“You’re my idol! I want to be you!”) and negative (“Just overdose and die, scumbag”) tweets to Alig, feeling overwhelmingly conflicted. The scene Alig built in the early 90s was wonderfully creative, thrilling, and inclusive—at first. Michael has hundreds of letters from people who said he helped them love themselves for the first time, because they saw his gender-bending club kids preaching acceptance on talk shows like Geraldo. But that sparkly scene fell apart when heroin and crack were added into the equation—and now Melendez isn’t ever going to enjoy life again, so why should Alig? And yet: he completed his prison sentence, so doesn’t he deserve a chance to prove himself?
    That night, back in the Bronx, Alig seemed troubled. “It’s hard because I understand where all the hateful comments are coming from. I did something really horrible, like the most horrible thing. And am I remorseful? Without a doubt. I would give anything to take it back. I feel sick thinking about Angel’s brother and family, you know? Yet there’s nothing I can do,” he said. “All week part of me has felt the cameras shouldn’t be there, and a part of me felt giddy that they were there, and then another part of me felt guilty about the giddiness. And I’m wondering if the rest of my life is going to be that way: that any little pleasure is going to come with an equal or larger amount of guilt.”
    When I hugged him goodbye in his bedroom late that night, Alig looked forlorn. He gave me a little wave, and then lay back on his bed, trying desperately to be a free man.


    Michael Alig’s First Week of Freedom, after 17 Years of Prison

    New York party promoter Michael Alig was released last week after serving 17 years in jail. The self-proclaimed “King of The Club Kids” infamously slayed his drug-dealer friend, Angel Melendez, in March 1996, before dismembering the body with his accomplice, Robert “Freez” Riggs, and disposing of it in the Hudson River. Here, in his own words, is his story.

    It was just after we had heaved the cardboard box containing Angel’s remains into the Hudson that we heard the deafening sound of helicopters. Police searchlights blinded us as we cowered by the roadside, raising our hands above our heads.

    In truth, there was no 4 a.m. swoop on that dark, chilly morning in March 1996. It was a figment of our drug-addled imaginations. Our day of reckoning on the West Side Highway was a paranoid hallucination caused by panic, fear and the mountain of heroin we’d consumed.

    Yet the dismembered corpse that Freez and I threw into the river and the sickening crime we had committed were all too real.

    Eighteen years on, looking back at the person I was at that time, I feel nothing but shame and disgust. I was a selfish junkie who killed another human being. But that’s not the Michael Alig I am today or the Michael Alig I was before I became an addict — the misfit from the Midwest who came to New York City in search of acceptance, opportunity and a whole lot of fun.

    It was August 1984 and I can still remember the knot of anxiety and excitement in my stomach as we crossed the George Washington Bridge as Mom and her boyfriend, Bill, drove me to Fordham University in the Bronx. It was intimidating looking at the famous Manhattan skyline, wondering how I was going to compete with all the beautiful, smart, talented, rich people living there.

    But soon I moved in their circles. I managed to latch onto a student called Ludovic, a flamboyant, sexually ambiguous type who was dating the artist Keith Haring.

    One night, Keith threw a party at Area, one of the coolest clubs in the city. In my hometown of South Bend, Ind., a nightclub was a honkytonk of men with beer-gut bellies watching sports on TV. This was a modern-day speakeasy with 300 people lined up outside. The doorman selected who got in, one at a time, like a florist chooses roses and carnations for a bouquet. Grace Jones was there. Cameras flashed. Ludovic, who was led out of our limo on a leash, wore nothing but underwear and white body paint.

    As a gay teen coming to terms with my sexuality, I was overwhelmed and exhilarated. It was liberating.

    Talk about being in the right place at the time. While the rest of the country was entrenched in depressing Reaganomics and “Just say no,” downtown New York nightlife was having a moment.

    It was a Warholian scene of self-proclaimed celebrities with names like John Sex, Billy Beyond and Sister Dimension. Their job was to go out every night and be fabulous.
    They were doing the fame thing backwards. Instead of accomplishing anything — writing, painting or acting — their plan was to first achieve a measure of celebrity. Once they got famous, everything they did amplified their notoriety. I wanted entry into this exclusive community.

    First thing I did was ditch the tacky Izod pants and Mondrianesque T-shirts which I’d thought were so cutting-edge in South Bend.

    I dropped out of college, earned $50 plus tips as a busboy at Danceteria and started organizing my own party nights. The first one at club owner Rudolf’s venue Tunnel was themed “Consumer Hell.”

    Satirizing the idea of conspicuous American consumption, I paid someone to bring me 10 shopping carts from a store in New Jersey. TV commercials played on the video screens. I wore a hat made out of an Oreo box and Fruit Loop earrings. People arrived in Saran wrap dresses stuffed with Cheerios and Fluffer Nutter. It was crazy.

    The idea of The Club Kids came about after I met James St. James, the flamboyant socialite, and my boyfriend DJ Keoki, who built up a following at Tunnel and later Peter Gatien’s marquee clubs in Manhattan, Limelight and USA.

    The clique expanded to include RuPaul, Robert “Freez” Rigg, Jennytalia and Gitsie. I loved the idea of packaging someone like a product, like the old movie industry in Hollywood who took Norma Jean and made Marilyn Monroe.

    We became the darlings of the club scene, paid merely to show up and bring a bit of fabulousness to the mix. We led a pampered existence of fancy dinners and media exposure.

    Meanwhile, one of my biggest successes as a promoter was “The Filthy Mouth Contest.” I had to do something that would cause a stir and figured I’d have a competition where you went on stage and said the raunchiest, dirtiest thing ever. Whoever shocked the audience most would win $100.

    People talked about being raped or raping someone. It devolved into public masturbation with beer bottles. Everyone was riveted. They couldn’t leave the room. I don’t know what the take was that night, but I got paid $500. “Thank God I quit college,” I thought. “I’m going to be a millionaire.”
    By March 1988, we made the cover of New York Magazine. I was going through my Little Lord Fauntleroy period — the bower around the neck, the ruffled shirt and the knickers. We were guests on Geraldo, Donahue and Joan Rivers. Our message was: “Love yourself. Don’t give a f— what other people think about you.”

    In the early days of Club Kids, it really was quite beautiful and positive. We helped the disillusioned and the disenfranchised believe in themselves — the gay kid from Iowa who didn’t dare tell anyone for fear of being mocked.

    Even though I didn’t really buy it myself, I was very good at getting that message out.

    Then, in the early ’90s, while I was employed as one of Peter’s directors, a darker side emerged to the club scene.

    Drugs were introduced such as Rohypnol and the animal tranquilizer ketamine, known as Special K. Cocaine and ecstasy were social drugs that made people chatty and euphoric. These were heavy downers that turned them into zombies.

    Strangely enough, I’d always been anti-drug. I hated it when Keoki took cocaine. Usually, when I found it in his pockets, I’d flush it down the toilet.

    But one time when I discovered his stash, I confronted him, put it on the back of my hand and snorted it. It was a selfish thing. It was like I was saying: “How does it feel now that your drug use has encroached upon our relationship? Now I’m a drug addict too!”

    It didn’t take long before things imploded. The drinking, drugging and lack of boundaries took its toll. I wound up in the hospital twice after overdosing on a near-lethal concoction of heroin, cocaine, ecstasy and ketamine.

    As for the club scene, it was the beginning of the end.

    By mid-1995, the Drug Enforcement Agency was on our case.

    The Limelight was repeatedly threatened with closure by the police, who suspected drug trafficking. They said we had a laissez-faire attitude and allowed dealers to operate in our clubs.

    In truth, we were paying them around $200 a night to host events. They weren’t the Gambinos, they were small-timers, often drag queens who made only enough money selling drugs to support their own habit.

    One of them was Angel Melendez, a 25-year-old Club Kid who lived in Queens but sometimes stayed over at my apartment with the others on weekends in Manhattan. He was a good guy, but we looked down on him because he was part of the Webster Hall crowd, whom we considered second-rate.

    In the middle of March 1996, we got word that the DEA was coming to our clubs on a certain Saturday night to arrest 30 or so dealers. The agency was going to threaten them with a lot of police time unless they turned state’s evidence against Peter.

    My job was to call them all and tell them not to show up that night and explain why. But Angel came to Limelight anyway around 2 a.m.

    On my instructions, the doormen turned him away. But he wanted to show off to his friends who were visiting from out of town.
    “Are you at least going to pay me for tonight?” he groused. He had accumulated several nights’ wages that were kept in the club safe.

    But again, we refused to let him in because of the threat from the DEA. “It’s for his own good,” I said. High on alcohol and Zanax, Angel left, disgruntled and humiliated.

    Then, just a few hours later at around 10 a.m., he showed up at my apartment on 43rd Street and 11th Avenue, the place where I lived as part of my salary at Limelight.

    “I want my money,” Angel demanded, still high. “Take me to the club to get it.” My mind was shot because I was just coming off a four-day binge on cocaine, Special K, heroin and crystal meth.

    What happened next was a silly, pushy catfight.

    Freez, staying over because he was helping renovate the apartment, poked fun at Angel’s captain’s hat. He always wore the same thing — the hat and a pair of wings.

    “We only let you hang out with us because you have drugs!” Freez yelled.

    “Are you going to let him speak to me like that?” Angel asked, looking at me.

    There was a scuffle and I went flying through a glass china cabinet. A large piece of glass pierced my back and blood spurted everywhere.

    Angel started biting me and Freez tried to pull him off.

    Freez reached for a hammer that was lying on a nearby table and hit him with the wooden handle. Angel fell to the floor. We sat on top of him and, wrapping a sweatshirt around my hand, I smashed it into Angel’s face.

    We were all high on ketamine. Maybe it was the combination of me doing it for too long or having more strength than I realized, but Angel stopped writhing.
    We laid him on the couch, thinking he was unconscious. It wasn’t until a few hours later that we realized he was dead.

    The following days were a blur.

    In a haze of drugs and a state of fear, we panicked. Instead of calling the police or even an ambulance, we made the horrifying decision to run from reality and try to cover up the crime.

    Involving the authorities, as gross and selfish as it sounds, would have involved being sober, facing the terrible thing we’d done. We were junkies. We didn’t do that.

    Besides, once this got out, it would be the end of the Limelight and the other clubs. Hundreds of people would be out of a job. Lives would be ruined because of the scandal.

    So we dragged Angel into the bathtub and went to get ice. We had baking soda and Drano in the apartment — the only things we could think to use to mask the odor — and poured Drano over Angel’s body.

    Then we left him there while we took enough heroin to work this out.

    Opiates give you this blanket of comfort where you think everything is OK, when it it’s obviously not.

    I don’t know who made the decision but, about eight or nine days later, Freez went to Macy’s to buy a pair of butcher’s knives.

    We had 20 bags of heroin delivered from our dealer. We did bag after bag. “I hope I overdose tonight,” I told Freez. “Then you are going to have two bodies to get rid of.”

    We did it relatively quickly, cutting at the joints. There was really no blood left because it had dried. Freez sprayed Calvin Klein’s Eternity all over the bathroom to disguise the smell, which was ironic.

    That night, we put the legs in a duffel bag and threw it into the river by the Intrepid around 4 a.m.

    Then we put the torso and head in a TV box and took it down to the Hudson at 26th Street.

    We were crazy paranoid the whole time. I kept imagining the police were coming, scrambling helicopters and hunting us down with giant searchlights.

    To be honest, though, I was less terrified about being caught than going to hell.

    I think that’s why I confessed to Gitsie and some of the other people I knew. But I told them in a manipulative, matter-of-fact way so they thought I was making it up.

    “Freez and I killed Angel,” I told friends at a dinner party who were asking about his disappearance one night.

    In August 1996, I went to see the Manhattan DA because rumors were circulating in the media and on the club scene. But nobody took it seriously. The police thought it was one of my pranks or some kind of performance art.

    Meanwhile, Angel’s brother, Johnny, came to town and was badgering them for answers. He was pressing the issue and was frustrated nobody was searching for Angel.
    I went to rehab in Denver, but it was a halfhearted attempt to get sober.

    My dealers were flying across from New York to supply me with Special K, cocaine and methamphetamine. I was in a state of numb haze. Because of the drugs, I wasn’t alive emotionally enough for the crime to bother me. I knew that the minute I stopped using, I would have to face the truth. I was afraid of this flood of reality.

    But Angel’s remains were recovered from the Hudson in the fall.

    In November 1996, the law caught up with me. I was staying with my boyfriend, Brian, in a hotel in Toms River, NJ, when the police knocked on the door.

    Michael Rodriguez, the DA, was actually kind. “We know that nobody wanted Angel to die, but it’s not going to go away,” he said. “Somebody has to pay.”

    They let me bring my heroin to get me up to Rikers because I told them I would get sick in a couple of hours. “You’ve got a lot bigger problems to worry about than a couple of bags of heroin,” the officer told me.

    Prison isn’t supposed to be easy, and it wasn’t. But, over the years, I found my place.

    I started painting and expressing myself through my art. I learned a lot about patience.

    After the 2003 movie “Party Monster” was released, based on my life, I received hundreds of letters from kids who were disenfranchised and felt like the whole Club Kids thing was speaking to them. It was really validating.

    The prison phones were segregated for whites, Hispanics and blacks, but the Bloods let me use their phone. One of the leaders was the kingpin of this ecstasy ring on Staten Island and Brooklyn. I guess he had been sending dealers to my clubs.

    He told all the other Bloods not to touch me because I ran all these great clubs. They saw me as a like-minded figure because I had my own kind of gang with the Club Kids. It was this subversive, anti-authority thing and they saw me eye-to-eye on this.

    But I was still using drugs inside. Percocet mainly.

    It wasn’t until March 2009 that I finally decided that enough was enough.

    I’d learned this through therapy, but it took a really long time to sink in.

    I committed a crime while I was on drugs and, for me to continue to use drugs while incarcerated for whatever reason was to say: “I don’t care about what I did.”
    The idea of this seemed so disgusting, so obscene that it made me feel like slime. I thought: “I can’t do this anymore. If I have to go through a year of withdrawal, well, you know what, I killed someone and that’s the price I have to pay.” And maybe I’ll feel better about myself later on when I actually did pay a price instead of masking everything continually with drugs.

    And that’s where I am now.

    It’s a stipulation of my parole that I don’t contact Angel’s relatives, but maybe they’ll reach out to me.

    I know that whatever I tell them, they will never get closure.

    But I’d like them to know that, when he was alive, Angel was just like the rest of us Club Kids — a misfit from the sticks who was very much loved in our alternative family of friends.

    Meanwhile, last Monday, when I was released from jail after 17 years, my friend drove me into Manhattan across the George Washington Bridge. I gazed at the Manhattan skyline and it felt exactly like the first time I came to New York three decades ago. I had the same knot of excitement and anxiety. But I’ve been given a second chance in this city full of misfits and dreamers. I’m glad I’ve survived.


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    "Ink" (Produced by Timbaland!)

    "True Love"


    The rest of the songs are at the source

    I think it's their worst album :(

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    idk if this is a comedy but I found it more depressing than funny :/

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    Today's leaked elevator surveillance video of Solange Knowles getting all Bad Girls Club on her brother-in-law Jay Z provided the world with all the receipts it needs that shit is fucked up in the Knowles-Carter family.

    But the real tea isn't the fight itself, but what could have possibly gone down between the two to make Solange kick her sister's husband in the balls. We explore three theories.

    1.) Solange is a nasty drunk.

    After the Met Gala it's the after-party, and after the party it's the hotel lobby—but first it's a melee in the elevator. Could Solange have just been over-served? The fight did take place at the end of the night, which is when people are usually at their drunkest.

    Considered the "feisty" one of the two sisters, Solange isn't afraid to call people out, even if it burns bridges or leaves her looking like an asshole. Somebody with a quick temper could easily turn into a bad drunk.

    With that being said, it doesn't seem like Solange was that wasted. First of all, she had the presence of mind to wait and unleash on Jay until they were all in the elevator, and not in public in front of everyone. Plus, wild drunken beasts looking for a fight tend to get just as mad at the person holding them back from the fight as they do at their target. Solange didn't go after Beyoncé's bodyguard Julius for interfering. She seemed with it enough to know exactly at whom to direct her anger. She also regained her composure enough to quickly and quietly walk to her car outside of the hotel.

    2.) Jay-Z insulted her as a mother.

    The extended video of the elevator fight goes on for about four minutes, with Solange going back for seconds at one point. That's a long time to be at peak anger to the point of physical violence.

    If it was something that Jay Z said to her that set Solange off, it would have to be something that really cut to the bone. Something had to truly move her to risk ripping her couture gown or losing a piece of her Lorraine Schwartz-borrowed jewelry or spitting on Beyoncé's Givenchy.

    One thing that's guaranteed to set almost any mother off is calling her parenting into question. Add in some alcohol and things could get really ugly. Perhaps Solange was a little bit tipsy or conducting herself in some manner to which Jay Z took exception. Maybe he said something like, "Nice way for a mother to behave."

    Sure, that's the kind of thing that could make a person lose their shit—but if that were really the case, wouldn't it make more sense for Solange to just tell him to fuck off and stay at the after-party and continue to drink? Why leave with the person who is judging you?

    3.) She was sticking up for her sister.

    Beyoncé and Solange have both intimated in the past that Solange is the more outspoken of the two and she doesn't mind going to bat for her big sister. The most striking thing about the elevator video is how calm Beyoncé appears—as though this is something that has happened before.

    Why didn't she try to hold her sister back? Why did she step aside and let her sister high-kick her husband right in the chest? Why is she letting her sister scream at her husband without correcting her? Maybe because Beyoncé thinks Jay deserved Solange's wrath.

    There have long been rumors about how Beyoncé and Jay Z's marriage is plagued with his infidelity. Those rumors have been fueled by Beyoncé's own songs which frequently reference it.

    Take a look at the lyrics from her last few albums: "Ring the Alarm,""Me, Myself & I," or "No Angel." Even "Love on Top," which is an ostensibly sweet song, is about the complicated ups and downs of a longterm relationship in which her partner hadn't been making her a priority.

    Solange's methods of attack are also interesting, and they indicate that Jay Z did something she felt was pretty reprehensible. She repeatedly tries to kick him in the crotch, she spits on him twice, she throws her handbag at him and when he hands her shoe back to her, she tries to beat him with it.

    This is the first time that there was proof of the violence that goes on behind closed doors within this family (it's possibly hinted at in "Drunk in Love"), but there have been a number of blind items about it for years.

    But we probably never will get the truth about what really went down in that elevator.

    Just moments after that traumatic family event, a pissed-off Solange got in one car and a confused Jay Z was ushered into another. Beyoncé posed and smiled for the cameras, like nothing had happened.


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    On paper, "The Watch" sounds like a no brainer of potential awesomeness. Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn, Jonah Hill and Richard Ayoade ♥ play mild-mannered suburban dudes who have to fight off an alien invasion—what could go wrong? Well, pretty much everything and simply put, it wasn't good. And last year's "This Is The End" (also featuring Jonah Hill) took that similar concept to much wilder, funnier places. And indeed, "The Watch" pretty much tanked at the box office, barely making back its budget. So what was it like making? Well, with his inventive and unique "The Double" in theaters, Ayoade has referred to being involved in "The Watch" rather...clinically...

    "I like all the actors in it, and I like [director] Akiva [Schaffer]—for me, when I'm in something, my job is just to serve the director and do what they want," Ayoade continued. "It's kind of like giving a tissue sample. You have no idea what will be done with it. That's the experience for me of being in something that I'm not involved in the writing or directing of. You kind of go, 'You seem happy, okay!'"
    Making The Watch Was "Like Giving A Tissue Sample"

    We all like to moan about our jobs, but if you think your office is bad, British director Richard Ayoade’s latest film, The Double, should help you put things into perspective.

    Ayoade, who is also a comedian, actor, and writer, directed and co-wrote the film, which premieres in the U.S. May 9. He was drawn to the project because of the story’s unique take on the doppelgänger theme. "There is something very interesting about the main premise--that someone can be so unworthy of note that an exact replica of them could appear and no one would either notice or point it out to them. That seemed to me very funny,” he says.

    The Double, which debuted at the Sundance Film Festival, is Ayoade’s second feature as a director, following the critically acclaimed Submarine in 2010. Here, he gives Co.Create some of his insights on filmmaking, the creative process and the humiliations of office life.
    6 Lessons in Filmmaking from The Double Director Richard Ayoade

    Most people on this side of the pond might recognize veteran English comedian Richard Ayoade as the oddball techie Moss on the Britcom The IT Crowd, or as the odd man out from the 2012 A-list sci-fi comedy The Watch (he was the gentleman who was not Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn or Jonah Hill). He's established himself as a novel comic presence onscreen, gravitating toward characters that feel several beats off from the norm and don't mesh with their environments.

    Behind the camera, however, Ayoade has become a specialist in the art of syncing. His debut feature, Submarine (2010), took Wes Anderson's visual quirks and used them to make a coming-of-age film that could not have felt more provincially British. The Community episode he directed — a double-helix homage/parody of both Pulp Fiction and My Dinner With Andre— felt completely unique while sticking to the show's in-house style. (Some have called it the "21st century's greatest TV episode.") And with his latest film, The Double, Ayoade loosely filters Fyodor Dostoevsky's story of a clerk (Jesse Eisenberg) whose life is overtaken by his more confident doppelgänger (also Jesse Eisenberg) through a Kafkaesque dystopia of tyrannical bureaucracy and perpetual nighttime.
    On The Double: Richard Ayoade Meets His Match

    Members: Name 6 reasons why you stan for King Richard. Optional, of course.

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    How are you doing, Blacklist fans? Have you recovered yet from Monday’s finale? Picked your jaws up off the floor, after the NBC drama delivered one helluva conclusion to its freshman season?

    To keep your head from spinning, let’s revisit the five biggest moments from The Blacklist’s final installment of the year.

    Not a single agent on the FBI task force deserves the fate that Meera suffers, but watching her get her throat slit by an accomplice of Berlin’s is especially heartbreaking. (Side note: Later learning that her children are just 5 and 8 years old totally didn’t help. Thanks for the knife in the gut, Blacklist.) Meera’s death occurs as she and Ressler visit a nightclub, hoping to track down a Russian fugitive that escaped from the unmarked plane that crashed in last week’s penultimate episode. Although Ressler is able to track down the prisoner, Meera isn’t quite as lucky. Her throat is cut, Game of Thrones-style, and Liz is just seconds too late to save her life.

    Unfortunately, Berlin’s accomplices are not quite able to scratch Harold Cooper’s name off the list of task force members they want eliminated. After Cooper takes a secret meeting with Special Agent Martin, who tells Cooper to track down Liz and Reddington, Cooper returns to his car and is very nearly shot to death by the same man who took Meera’s life. As we later learn, though, Cooper is clinging to life in the ICU. And at the end of the episode, he indicates he’s still hanging on with a twitch of his finger.

    For much of this final hour, Liz, Red and the rest of us are still trying to figure out who the mysterious Berlin is, and why he’s so furious with Red. Liz and Ressler visit the only surviving guard from the plane crash, who is bed-ridden in the ICU, to learn who Berlin is. The answer? He is a former member of the KGB, who was notorious for sending his enemies to work camps in Siberia. After Berlin’s daughter was imprisoned for having a secret relationship with a dissident at the end of the Cold War, Berlin helped his daughter escape, causing him to then be held captive in Siberia as his daughter’s remains (and a pocket watch belonging to her) were sent to his jail cell, piece by piece. But after a time, Berlin filed one of his daughter’s bones into a knife — how, uh, sweet? — and escaped prison using the newly fashioned weapon. Later, Fitch believes he has tracked down Berlin, and Red meets him face-to-face…. before shooting him dead not long into their conversation.

    But wait. There’s more! Before episode’s end, it is revealed that the man Red shot was, in fact, not Berlin. Rather, the one they seek is the “guard” that Liz and Ressler spoke to earlier, who has escaped the hospital by the time the agents return to arrest him. (Of course.) Berlin’s most distinguishing feature? His lack of a left hand, which he himself cut off before jumping out of the unmarked plane. Red tells Liz that he knows Berlin is still on the loose, but he hopes the convict will soon come out of the woodwork once more.

    During Red’s face-to-face with The Man Who Is Not Berlin, Tom enters the room with Liz at gunpoint. Quite the scuffle ensues: Tom shoots Red, Liz shoots Tom, Red flees the scene, and before Liz leaves Tom to bleed out and die — which we later learn he doesn’t — Tom whispers something in Liz’s ear: “Your father is alive.”

    Quick show of hands: Who assumed from Day 1 that Red was Liz’s real father? (I expect to see lots of hands up, TVLine readers!) As revealed in the final seconds of tonight’s finale, that popular theory was proven correct. After Liz relays to Red that her father may still be alive, he reassures her that her real father — whose identity she must not know, for her own protection — died the day he saved her from that house fire. But just before the screen fades to black, Red is seen at home, revealing a back full of burns as he takes off his shirt.

    Source: TVLine.com

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    We always knew that Beckett and Castle’s road to getting hitched would have, well, a few hitches. A last-minute quickie divorce from a past flame. Venue drama. Maybe some dress drama. But we didn’t expect what actually happened in the final minutes of season 6. (Warning No. 2: Oddly, there’s a Downton Abbey spoiler below, too…)

    In sum: There was a wedding. But Castle never got to see it.

    In the final minutes of the episode — which was largely an hour filled with humor, a little chaos, and sweet anticipation — Castle was on his way to the venue when he noticed a black SUV in his rear-view mirror, and it quickly became clear that the vehicle was not simply a celebrity vacationer. (On a show like this, that’s never the case.)

    As much of a red flag as this was, my stomach actually dropped about a minute before this, when Castle was having a sweet cell phone conversation with Kate as he drove down a scenic road. He’d just gotten their marriage license from a judge, after clearing up her botched divorce situation. She answered her phone and called him “lover.” He finished their call by saying “…and Kate, I love you.” I believe my exact words were, “Don’t you dare Matthew Crawley him” — but with more profanity.

    My worst fears would have been confirmed by the fiery Mercedes that closed out the hour, but as he is the titular Castle, I fear not for the life of our plucky writer. But I do fear a lot of other things — like the people in that black SUV. Where have they taken him? They did take him, right? He wasn’t ejected from the car – was he?

    Thanks for the anxiety, show. See you in September.


    lol Fucking horrible. The showdown last week was 100% better, everything tonight was predictable.  That dress was gorgeous though.

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    The renowned Swiss artist H.R. Giger has died at the age of 74, as a result of injuries sustained in a fall, Swiss public television, SRF, has reported. Giger was most famous for the alien monster he created for the movie of the same name.

    SRF cited family sources. In the art world, Giger, who focused during his career on the fantastic realism and surrealistic genres, is best known for his contribution to the film Alien. The monster he created for Ridley Scott’s film earned him an Oscar for special effects in 1980.

    His talent for scaring movie audiences was repeated in Poltergeist 2 (1986), Alien 3 (1992) and Species (1995). Computer game fans were able to enjoy his work in Dark Seed in 1995.

    His film work was just one facet of his talent, though. Giger is also known for his sculptures, paintings and furniture.


    R.I.P. You will be missed :(

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    Film by The Young Astronauts a Partizan Production in association with The Creators League
    Directed By Alyssa Pankiw
    Executive Producer: Frank Cooper III

    Download Heroes on iTunes!


    Yasssss so qt

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    This song is perfect. Austin, please write more songs in the bathroom.

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    Image and video hosting by TinyPic
    Washington (AFP) - The widow of the man who was driving a sports car when it crashed, killing him and "Fast and Furious" star Paul Walker last year, is suing Porsche.

    The suit filed Monday alleges the 2005 Porsche Carrera GT the two men were in did not have a proper crash cage or safety features in the gas tank. The suit said these would have saved both men.

    Walker had completed much of his part in filming "Fast and Furious 7" before he died in November aged 40, in a high-speed car crash in California.

    The suit was filed by Kristine Rodas, wife of the late driver Roger Rodas, in the Los Angeles County Superior Court.

    A failure in the car's suspension system forced it to swerve out of control and hit trees while driving in Santa Clarita, California, according to the suit filed by Rodas.

    "The Carrera GT was unsafe for its intended use by reason of defects in its manufacture, design, testing, component and constituents, so that it would not safely serve its purpose," states the lawsuit.
    View gallery
    US actor Paul Walker, seen on the catwalk during Sao …
    US actor Paul Walker, seen on the catwalk during Sao Paulo Fashion Week in Brazil, on March 21, 2013 …

    It seeks unspecified damages from Porsche Cars North America.

    In January, coroners said the car carrying Walker and his friend was doing over 100 miles (160 kilometers) per hour.

    After Walker's death, studio giant Universal suspended filming, before delaying the release date for the film, originally scheduled for this summer.

    The film is now due to be released on April 10, 2015 in the United States.

    The first "Fast and Furious" movie appeared in 2001. The series, with its focus on fast cars, tough guys, sexy starlets and exotic locales, is one of Hollywood's most successful global franchises.

    source: http://news.yahoo.com/suit-filed-death-fast-furious-actor-paul-walker-062250539.html

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    Before Batman, there was Gotham City — and a whole bunch of bad guys, too, by the look of it.

    Already, Fox’s “Gotham” has carved out roles for key figures in the future Batman’s rogues gallery, like Catwoman (Camren Bicondova) and the Penguin (Robin Lord Taylor). In the first trailer for the upcoming TV series, we saw a brief glimpse of another of the Caped Crusader’s classic villains: Edward Nigma, alias the Riddler, played by actor Cory Michael Smith.

    It looks like the puzzling criminal is here to stay, too: Smith has been promoted to full-on series regular status for “Gotham,” indicating that Riddler has a strong part to play in the coming episodes. In addition to Smith’s upgrade, Deadline reports that two others have become series regulars: Victoria Cartagena and Andrew Stewart Jones, who play Gotham cops Renee Montoya and Crispus Allen, respectively.

    Beyond the increased role for Riddler, it appears “Gotham” has designs on Batman’s single greatest nightmare:


    Take a look at the following “Gotham” cast photo…

    …and now take a closer look at that object in the distance, just above Harvey Bullock’s head, as pointed out by Bleeding Cool:

    The Clown Prince of Crime’s calling card! If that’s not a clear enough signal that Joker is headed to “Gotham,” then take this nugget from show runner Bruno Heller’s interview with Entertainment Weekly: “He’s the crown jewel of the Batman villains. He will be brought in with great care and a lot of thought.”

    There are no “ifs” or “whens” or other excuses in that sentence; it’s a matter of timing and methodology, but Joker is coming to “Gotham,” assuming the show lasts long enough to bring him into the mix.


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    Solange and Chromeo are back at it again.

    The singer and the pop duo have already proven to be dynamic collaborators with their upbeat disco track "When The Night Falls," and three years later, their breezy, electro-tinged slow jam "Lost On The Way" is sure to be a fan favorite.

    The track is one of the highlights from the Canadian synth-pop duo's new LP White Women.

    "After working with Chromeo on 'When the Night Falls' from the last album, I was super excited to get back in and work together," Solange wrote on her Saint Heron website. "They came down to Long Island to this house where I was working on my album late last summer, and they played me a few tracks. When they played the instrumental for 'Lost on the Way,' I immediately knew that was the jam."

    And apparently it took no time for them to recreate the magic.

    "I wrote the melodies and lyrics to my parts super fast and recorded it that night," Solange said of the collaboration. "It flowed really organically and working with [Chromeo] always feels that way."

    According to Idolator, White Women is Chromeo's fourth studio album.

    The complete album will be released on May 12 but is available to stream now.

    The album's lead single is the Toro y Moi-assisted track "Come Alive" and features "Jealous (I Ain't With It)."
    As previously reported, Solange is also working on an album slated to be released in the fall. This will be her first full-length release since 2008's Sol-Angel and the Hadley St Dreams.

    Listen to White Women over at iTunes radio now and check out "Lost On The Way" below.


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    X-Men: Days of Future Past pulls off the impossible. Truth be told, it pulls off several “impossibles.” By seamlessly adapting comic writer Chris Claremont’s cherished, 1980 story arc of the same name into a big-budget, movie-star-driven extravaganza, director Bryan Singer finally delivers on a long-standing promise to X-Men supporters to both honor this cherished, time-hopping narrative and bring the detested, awe-inspiring, mutant-hunting Sentinel robots to the big screen. It’s an X-Men story that’s nearly 14 years in the making. It’s the X-Men movie dedicated fans never thought they’d see. And now that it’s here, it’s the greatest X-Men movie we’ve seen to date, and a new standard-bearer for the massive potential of comic-book franchises far and wide.

    Miles and miles of narrative foundation had to be laid out over the years before X-Men: Days of Future Past could even entertain the notion of existing, and that’s one component of the “impossibles” I was referring to earlier. For those who might not know, Singer’s mutant saga relies on time travel to tell a shockingly intimate story that bridges the original cast of the initial X-Men movies– many of whom haven’t been seen on screen in these roles since Brett Ratner’s 2006 sequel X-Men: The Last Stand -- to the younger counterparts introduced in Matthew Vaughn’s series reconfigure, X-Men: First Class. The lynchpin of this streamlined time twister is the series’ biggest star: Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine, whose sent back in time by his long-time mentor and friend, Professor Charles Xavier (Patrick Stewart), to possibly prevent a cataclysmic future.

    X-Men: Days of Future Past isn’t a direct translation of Claremont’s revered, two-issue story arc. Details have been altered to make this more of an interpretation, one that borrows significant components from the comics but grows, organically, from the cinematic legacy created by the four previous X-Men movies and, yes, the standalone Wolverine films. While we were so busy heaping praise on Marvel President Kevin Feige and his crew for mapping out a massive Marvel Cinematic Universe, Fox was quietly shifting mutant pieces around a superhero chess board and realizing they had enough moves under their belt to pull off Days of Future Past. It’s remarkable how Days snaps seemingly disconnected pieces of the larger X-Men puzzle into place, justifying decisions made in previous movies and restoring temporary order to the series. Days of Future Past miraculously tidies up the once-disjointed history of the X-Men movies, simultaneously setting the series on an open road to countless future stories. (Look for a brief tease for X-Men: Apocalypse, due in theaters in 2016, in the end credits of this particular film.)

    The masterstroke was the hiring of Bryan Singer to return to the film franchise he helped launch back in 2000 with the first X-Men movie. Though we don’t get to spend a lot of time in the bombed-out, post-apocalyptic future world Xavier, Magneto (Sir Ian McKellen) and the older X-Men are trying to restore, Singer opens Days of Future Past with thrilling mutant-on-Sentinel action sequences that remind us what a firm grasp he has on the power and motion of the Marvel mutant heroes. It’s a rush to see Kitty Pryde (Ellen Page) grab Bishop (Omar Sy) so they can run through objects as they prepare to fight an army of lethal Sentinels. Iceman (Shawn Ashmore), Storm (Halle Berry) and Colossus (Daniel Cudmore) get to show off their skills. Newcomer Blink (Bingbing Fan) is a surprisingly exciting additon for the way she teleports X-Men around the battlefield. The future-set scenes give Days of Future Past a grim bookend, but they allow Singer and his cast to hit the ground running at a full sprint.

    The movie rarely slows down, which is exhilarating for X-Men enthusiasts, but might be too much for casual fans seeking the next eye-popping thrills of the summer blockbuster season. With Wolverine as a guide, Days of Future Past rallies through a number of dizzying plot turns that are executed with hairpin precision, including: a prison break from a Pentagon cell; a violent confrontation at a Parisian peace summit; the creation of the Sentinels at the hands of human antagonist Dr. Bolivar Trask (Peter Dinklage); an offbeat explanation of the Kennedy assassination, followed by an attempt on the life of President Nixon (Mark Camacho), which won’t make it into any noted history books.

    Parts of Days of Future Past can be reductively dismissed as one-note. Mystique (Jennifer Lawrence) is treated as a significant threat to this on-screen universe, but her motivations are muddy, at best. The series also has yet to conjure a credibly complicated human villain, and Trask – despite some sinister flair by Dinklage – doesn’t reverse the trend. The human race, in general, has always been the main obstacle in the X-Men movies, and the blind fear we’re supposed to feel when confronted by those who are different continues to be the underlying theme that connects all of the action in Singer’s latest epic. The presence of outlying characters like young Bill Stryker (Josh Helman) feel like unnecessary reaches to previous chapters in the X-Men saga, and add little here.

    That being said, James McAvoy and Michael Fassbender dominate Days of Future Past with immense portrayals of extremely complicated individuals. The men continue to probe the psychological tortures that come with playing younger versions of Professor Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr, aka Magneto. McAvoy’s Charles, in particular, stands at a crossroads between wanting to help his fellow mutants but feeling unable to betray the ones he once considered allies. The fact that the future of the X-Men series appears to be in the hands of these towering performers gives me tremendous hope, because they play through the inherently campy tones of the X-Men universe to find real pain and hurt in the missions of these mutant heroes.

    The third leg of the Days of Future Past triangle is occupied by the largest star in Singer’s universe: Hugh Jackman. And there’s a totally different dynamic to Jackman when Wolverine is able to steal scenes as part of a larger mutant ensemble. That playful magic, which has been missing in the Wolverine solo films, is back in full force for Days. Jackman’s take on Wolverine – his seventh portrayal of the character – is forceful, funny, casual, arrogant and effortlessly cool. It’s a breathless reminder of all of the reasons we love Wolverine as a character, and it’s the best use of Wolvie in a movie… possibly ever (though I still love his tremendous debut in Singer’s wonderful 2000 X-Men film).

    There’s plenty more to talk about in X-Men: Days of Future Past, but the rest of it should be experienced and enjoyed in the theater. Evan Peters’ Quicksilver, for example, is a fantastic addition to the ever-growing mutant stable and a terrific use of Singer’s mutant-friendly imagination. And the film’s coda nostalgically places a well-earned bow on the outcast-driven series. X-Men: Days of Future Past pays fitting tribute to the history of this impressive franchise. It plants more narrative seeds that could be cultivated by either Singer or other vested directors with an interest in Marvel’s mutants. And as it stands, it is the best, most complete and most entertaining X-Men movie we’ve ever seen.



    Dat hyperbole
    Omg, Evan Peters was AWESOME in this :D BLINK! ♥
    IA about what he said about this is the best use of Wolverine to date and the bit about Mystique

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    My favorite part of Frozen — despite all of the hoopla surrounding “Let It Go,” and the fact that baby Anna looks like my actual little sister when she was a kid — is probably when Kristoff sings his lonely, misanthropic mountain song to his reindeer. So naturally, I was disheartened to hear that Jonathan Groff wouldn’t be in a stage adaptation of Frozen, whenever that dream really comes to fruition. And here’s the crazy part — that’s all according to him!

    The big-screen sequel to Frozen is still a ways away, but that hasn't stopped Disney from pumping the property wherever it can: Last Sunday’s season finale of Once Upon a Time (broadcast on Disney-owned ABC) ended with the introduction of Elsa, and the show’s producers promise the ice queen will be a prominent character next season.

    Last night at HBO’s premiere of The Normal Heart, we asked Groff (who voiced strapping mountain man Kristoff in Frozen) if he'd consider reprising his animated huntsman in the flesh, if the show asked?

    “I would, but I’m not as hot as my cartoon character," he said. "It would be a big letdown. I’m not blond or six-foot-five.”

    Well, would he consider joining the inevitable Broadway cast of Frozen instead? “Yes,” he told us, “If they let me sing 'Let It Go.'”

    Oh, how we wish. That would be delightful. Can someone please give him a solo show? Let him host SNL? Something? Anything to hear his pipes on that song.

    Groff attended The Normal Heart premiere with Lea Michele, who may also aspire to sing "Let it Go."

    kiss4   kiss6

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    Ashley Benson is sultry as can be on the June/July 2014 cover of Complex magazine!

    The 24-year-old Pretty Little Liars star opened up the glossy about filming Spring Breakers, her strangest fan encounter, and more.

    On the way home from Spring Breakers filming:“I was with Vanessa Hudgens at the airport, on the way back to L.A. from wrapping Spring Breakers. We lost track of time getting dinner ’cause we were so tired, so we missed our flight. After spending two months in Florida, we just wanted to go home. We cried our eyes out on the floor and then picked ourselves up and had some drinks…We went to the bar, and then we wandered around the airport ’til like 3 in the morning.”

    On the craziest thing that happened on set:“I remember looking over to the floor at these two girls rolling around and making out completely naked. At that moment, I literally closed Selena [Gomez]’s eyes. I felt like I had to mother her.”

    On her weirdest fan request:
    “There was one girl when I was in a Korean spa with my friend. I was taking a shower, and there are no doors in the shower. Normally I’m, like, ‘Whatever, we’re all girls here.’ So I’m completely naked, taking this shower, and my friend’s in the one next to me."

    “All of sudden someone taps me on the shoulder. It was this girl who was like, ‘Hi, sorry to bother you, are you Ashley Benson?’ And I was like, ‘Are you serious right now? I’m naked.’ She was like, ‘Yeah, can I actually take a photo with you?’ She was trying to have a full conversation with me in the shower. ”

    On rumors: “I always get that I’m pregnant. That’s really fun. Also, apparently I’ve dated every single one of my co-stars. That’s not true, haven’t dated one.”

    Sources: 1 - 2

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    British beauty pro Lou Teasdale reveals her top hair and makeup tips.

    Among the images Harry Styles has given his 6 million Instagram followers to obsess over is a picture of Lou Teasdale’s dirty white Reeboks. Also on his feed: a screenshot of her iPhone’s favorite-callers list, where the pop star holds seventh place. As One Direction’s longtime groomer (aka makeup artist), Teasdale helps the boys stay clear-skinned and baby-faced, even on tour, but the Yorkshire-born hair-and-makeup pro isn’t just popular backstage. The multitalent has amassed a devoted female fan base that follows her around-the-clock advice on how to get a perfect complexion and sexily undone hair on Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram. (Want the perfect lilac rinse? Try hair dye from a party-supply shop, cut with conditioner.) Next up? Teasdale’s first book, The Craft: DIY Hair and Beauty—out now—which she calls a “rock ’n’ roll guide” to hair and makeup. “A lot of beauty books are a bit boring! This is about being creative,” she says

    What maintenance trick do you swear by?

    My eyebrows are totally rubbish. I get a treatment by a company called HD Brows. They dye the hairs you have, including the small, fluffy ones, and then thread them into shape. So you have fullness where you don’t naturally have color. It works so well.

    You use tanner to perfect skin. How do you make it look natural?

    A real tan has a bit of pink in it, so go for an aerosol spray that isn’t too brown or orange. I mist it over my face before I start my makeup. I even use it on the boys sometimes.

    What’s the key to turning freshly washed hair into a sexy matte mess?

    My new favorite tool is a good old ’80s diffuser. Mousse, and then diffuse to get that grungy, beachy, undone-but-done look. Even when I’m doing topknots or braids, I’ll muss it up with my fingers before I finish it.

    How do you keep performers’ hair from going flat during shows?

    Schwarzkopf Silhouette hairspray: It’s like glue. When I worked on The X Factor, we called it “Black Death” because it’s so strong.

    What’s one thing you always keep in your kit?

    I really like Lucas’ Papaw Ointment because it’s so natural and moisturizing. I use it for lips, and when the boys come in with fresh tattoos, we use it on those, as well.

    What kinds of things will we learn from your new book?

    Add powder eye shadow to lipstick for a matte finish. Black lipstick makes the best greasy, smoky eye. And hair chalk that matches your color creates matte dirty texture.

    Teasdale's Beauty Picks? Even the boys love RODIAL Instaglam Eye Brightening Concealer—it’s “really nice and sheer”; ST. TROPEZ One Night Only Instant Glow Body Lotion creates “a natural-looking tan”; for mega-volume, Teasdale coats her lashes with DIOR Diorshow Black Out mascara; FUDGE URBAN Dry Shampoo pumps up fluffy, just-washed hair; Teasdale keeps kajal eyeliner from her local Indian market in every handbag; HANZ DE FUKO Quicksand powder cream “makes clean hair look dirtier” in the best way.


    (she's a cultural appropriator and transphobic, have fun~)

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