Still the only substitute I will accept…especially because there’s a scene in the novel (and the musical) in which Patrick Bateman runs into Tom Cruise and mentions that people say they look alike. Obvs that joke is funniest with Miles Fisher since he’s a dead-ringer for Tom Cruise. (Christian Bale allegedly modeled his performance on Cruise’s talk-show persona, a “very intense friendliness with nothing behind the eyes.”)

P.S. This is the third time I have posted this video on my Tumblr, so if you haven’t watched it by now, shame on you.

She looks amazing!

(Source: britneyspears)

…there is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there. It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago (probably at Harvard) if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this—and I have countless times, in just about every act I’ve committed—and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing…

—Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho

Probably the greatest moment in the greatest film ever made. I hope there is a Heaven and it’s exactly like this.

(Source: bobbyfraser, via rainbowbright)

"I bet Bono has a small dick."

scamandalous:

Bono has now moved across the stage, following me to my seat, and he’s staring into my eyes, kneeling at the edge of the stage, wearing black jeans (maybe Gitano), sandals, a leather vest with no shirt beneath it. His body is white, covered with sweat, and its not worked out enough, there’s no muscle tone and what definition there might be is covered beneath a paltry amount of chest hair. He has a cowboy hat on and his hair is pulled back into a pony tail and he’s moaning some dirge—I catch the lyric “A hero is an insect in this world”—and he has a faint, barely noticeable but nonetheless intense smirk on his face and it grows, spreading across it confidently, and while his eyes blaze, the backdrop of the stage turns red and suddenly I get this tremendous surge of feeling, this rush of knowledge and I can see into Bono’s heart and my own beats faster because of this and I realize that I’m receiving a message of some kind from the singer. It hits me that we have something in common, that we share a bond, and it’s not impossible to believe that an invisible cord attached to Bono has now encircled me and now the audience disappears and the music slows down, gets softer and it’s just Bono onstage—the stadium’s deserted, the band fades away—and the message, his message, once vague, now gets more powerful and he’s nodding at me and I’m nodding back, everything getting clearer, my body alive and burning, on fire, and from nowhere a flash of white and blinding light envelopes me and I can hear it, can actually feel, can even make out the letters of the message hovering above Bono’s head in orange wavy letters: “I…am…the…devil…and I am…just…like…you…”

And then everyone, the audience, the band reappears and the music slowly swells up and Bono, sensing that I’ve received the message—I actually know that he feels me reacting to it—is satisfied and turns away and I’m left tingling, my face flushed, an aching erection pulsing against my thigh, my hands clenched in fists of tension. But suddenly everything stops, as if a switch has been turned off, the backdrop flashes back to white. Bono—the devil—is on the other side of the stage now and everything, the feeling in my heart, the sensation combing my brain, vanishes and now more than ever I need to know about the Fisher account that Owen is handling and this information seems vital, more pertinent than the bond of similarity I have with Bono, who is now dissolving and remote.

-Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho

I posted this on Tumblr three years ago, as kind of a weird Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark joke. It deserved to be reblogged.

The shot where you can tell that Dominic Cooper is on his tiptoes is my favorite.

(Source: gamquicks, via fuckyeahbenwalker)

Great song, great music video. 1998.

adam807:

amyspalding:

design-is-fine:

Color-keyed door handles for the refrigerator in the 1950s. They’re feminineered! Harvester Company, Chicago. Via flickr

FEMINEERED.

Shouldn’t it be femgineered? Come on, if you’re going to do it, do it right.

STOP MANSPLAINING

adam807:

amyspalding:

design-is-fine:

Color-keyed door handles for the refrigerator in the 1950s. They’re feminineered! Harvester Company, Chicago. Via flickr

FEMINEERED.

Shouldn’t it be femgineered? Come on, if you’re going to do it, do it right.

STOP MANSPLAINING


A Different Kind of Musical (x)

A Different Kind of Musical (x)

(Source: michael-esper, via claudebukowski)

NIGHTNIGHT by DEDDY