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Showing posts with label DETAILS MAG. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DETAILS MAG. Show all posts
Monday, October 25, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
OUTTAKE OF DETAILS MAGAINZINE
YES YES YOUR RIGHT THIS PICTURE WOULD LOOK BETTER IF THAT MODEL WAS ME HEHEHE
TIP IS ANOYMOUS
TIP IS ANOYMOUS
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Robert Pattinson Talks About Porn and Detials Magazine
COPIED AND PASTE
His vampire alter ego may be prince charming, but "Twilight" star Robert Pattinson does not worship women in quite the same way.
In fact, he is downright repulsed by some of their parts.
In a new interview with Details magazine, in which Pattinson was photographed with several scantily-clad female models, the British actor reveals why the shoot wasn't exactly his cup of tea.
"I really hate vaginas. I'm allergic to vagina," he tells Details. "But I can't say I had no idea, because it was a 12-hour shoot, so you kind of get the picture that these women are going to stay naked after, like, five or six hours."
Pattinson says he was thankful he was hungover during the ordeal, presumably because he had an excuse for not conversing with the models.
He did, however, take solace in the fact that the shoot wasn't overly pornographic, comparing its style to that of vintage pornography.
"If you look at porn in, like, the eighties, there was something kind of quaint about it, quite sweet -- like this little naked community," Pattinson tells the magazine. "The people who made it liked it, they had respect for it. Not remotely like the porn that's available now...It's just everything, everywhere.""
His aversion to contemporary porn aside, Pattinson does devote much of his brain power to women. According to Details, he talked during the interview about, "Jimi Hendrix, French fries, girls, art, beer, his cousin the philosopher, girls, truth, God, his dog, girls..."
Though he seems to have the female species firmly on the brain, Pattinson's strongest relationship is with another species entirely.
"The only emotional connection of relevance is with my dog," he tells Details. "My relationship with my dog, it's ridiculous
FROM NY DAILY NEWS
His vampire alter ego may be prince charming, but "Twilight" star Robert Pattinson does not worship women in quite the same way.
In fact, he is downright repulsed by some of their parts.
In a new interview with Details magazine, in which Pattinson was photographed with several scantily-clad female models, the British actor reveals why the shoot wasn't exactly his cup of tea.
"I really hate vaginas. I'm allergic to vagina," he tells Details. "But I can't say I had no idea, because it was a 12-hour shoot, so you kind of get the picture that these women are going to stay naked after, like, five or six hours."
Pattinson says he was thankful he was hungover during the ordeal, presumably because he had an excuse for not conversing with the models.
He did, however, take solace in the fact that the shoot wasn't overly pornographic, comparing its style to that of vintage pornography.
"If you look at porn in, like, the eighties, there was something kind of quaint about it, quite sweet -- like this little naked community," Pattinson tells the magazine. "The people who made it liked it, they had respect for it. Not remotely like the porn that's available now...It's just everything, everywhere.""
His aversion to contemporary porn aside, Pattinson does devote much of his brain power to women. According to Details, he talked during the interview about, "Jimi Hendrix, French fries, girls, art, beer, his cousin the philosopher, girls, truth, God, his dog, girls..."
Though he seems to have the female species firmly on the brain, Pattinson's strongest relationship is with another species entirely.
"The only emotional connection of relevance is with my dog," he tells Details. "My relationship with my dog, it's ridiculous
FROM NY DAILY NEWS
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Detail Outtakes and Pictures
these are getting so hot and again 2 of these are not showing up on blogger as soon as i fex them i will post them!
FROM AFFILIATE MYROBADDICTION
FROM AFFILIATE MYROBADDICTION
Article from Details Magazine
THIS WAS SO CUTE I HAD TO POST IT
COFFEE
It's the unseasonably cold November of 2008 when I go to New York's Bowery Hotel. There's a young man sitting in the garden, wrapped in about nine black sweaters and wearing a wool hat, smoking cigarettes, sipping a latte the size of his head, and furiously making notes on a script in the bitter cold. I have read about teenage girls lighting themselves on fire in front of his hotel, but at the moment Robert Pattinson is warming his hands on a coffee cup.
Hello, I'm Jenny. I think I'm here so you can check me out.
"Okay. I'm Rob. Um . . . would you like some fries? With gravy?"
Allen Coulter, the director of Hollywoodland and a creative force behind The Sopranos, has sent me. He was thinking about doing this movie—it wasn't quite there yet, but I should "come meet Rob."
Rob. When he came to the United States, he slept on his agent's sofa and then got a small part in a movie called Harry Potter and the Something of Something, which grossed nearly $900 million worldwide. And then he made another one, called Twilight, which grossed $385 million in theaters and almost another $200 million in U.S. DVD sales. Box-office riches, like so much of the female population of this planet, follow him from continent to continent, nursing a raging crush.
Coulter suggested I do some rewrite work on Remember Me (for the record, there is only one credited writer, Will Fetters), the first American release in which Rob will portray a mortal, nonmagical, carbon-based life form of the earthly realm—Salvador Dalí, whom he played in Little Ashes, surely doesn't qualify. As Rob scribbles away on the script's pages, it's clear he is starting his own revision process.
Rob's face is constantly busy—especially his kaleidoscopic eyes, which are continually rolling and dilating, because he is always thinking. Over the course of that latte, he contemplates Jimi Hendrix, French fries, girls, art, beer, his cousin the philosopher, girls, truth, God, his dog, girls, and whether this week's stalker has followed him from L.A. I don't think he could turn his brain off if he wanted to.
Despite the legion of fans trailing him from hotel to hotel, laying siege to each like the Roman army, he is neither fearful nor cocky—he's hungry, curious, forever reaching intellectually. That may not sound like a big deal, but think of the context: Complete strangers want to fuck you, shoot you, be you, buy you, sell you, run their fingers through your hair, watch you have sex, hear you pee, eat chips with you, and kidnap you and stuff you in the trunk of their car. And you? You must know more, more, more about exotic tropical diseases.
Rob and I discover we share a mutual fascination with afflictions that maim and disfigure and disgust: He brings up cancrum oris, in which bacteria eat away at your face until you get kind of a window in the side of your head and the entire world sees your teeth; I mention cyclic vomiting syndrome, a condition in which you puke literally all the goddamn time; he delights in lymphatic filariasis, where parasitic worms burrow into your lymph nodes and can make your balls swell to the size of watermelons, forcing you to tote them around in a wheelbarrow.
We come up with a blockbuster hit movie, entitled Candiru Infestation, about a tiny fish that swims up your urethra and into your urinary tract and lodges in your cock with backward-facing umbrella spikes it shoots from its spine.
FROM DETAILS
THANKS TO @Celz29 FROM TWITTER FOR THE TIP
COFFEE
It's the unseasonably cold November of 2008 when I go to New York's Bowery Hotel. There's a young man sitting in the garden, wrapped in about nine black sweaters and wearing a wool hat, smoking cigarettes, sipping a latte the size of his head, and furiously making notes on a script in the bitter cold. I have read about teenage girls lighting themselves on fire in front of his hotel, but at the moment Robert Pattinson is warming his hands on a coffee cup.
Hello, I'm Jenny. I think I'm here so you can check me out.
"Okay. I'm Rob. Um . . . would you like some fries? With gravy?"
Allen Coulter, the director of Hollywoodland and a creative force behind The Sopranos, has sent me. He was thinking about doing this movie—it wasn't quite there yet, but I should "come meet Rob."
Rob. When he came to the United States, he slept on his agent's sofa and then got a small part in a movie called Harry Potter and the Something of Something, which grossed nearly $900 million worldwide. And then he made another one, called Twilight, which grossed $385 million in theaters and almost another $200 million in U.S. DVD sales. Box-office riches, like so much of the female population of this planet, follow him from continent to continent, nursing a raging crush.
Coulter suggested I do some rewrite work on Remember Me (for the record, there is only one credited writer, Will Fetters), the first American release in which Rob will portray a mortal, nonmagical, carbon-based life form of the earthly realm—Salvador Dalí, whom he played in Little Ashes, surely doesn't qualify. As Rob scribbles away on the script's pages, it's clear he is starting his own revision process.
Rob's face is constantly busy—especially his kaleidoscopic eyes, which are continually rolling and dilating, because he is always thinking. Over the course of that latte, he contemplates Jimi Hendrix, French fries, girls, art, beer, his cousin the philosopher, girls, truth, God, his dog, girls, and whether this week's stalker has followed him from L.A. I don't think he could turn his brain off if he wanted to.
Despite the legion of fans trailing him from hotel to hotel, laying siege to each like the Roman army, he is neither fearful nor cocky—he's hungry, curious, forever reaching intellectually. That may not sound like a big deal, but think of the context: Complete strangers want to fuck you, shoot you, be you, buy you, sell you, run their fingers through your hair, watch you have sex, hear you pee, eat chips with you, and kidnap you and stuff you in the trunk of their car. And you? You must know more, more, more about exotic tropical diseases.
Rob and I discover we share a mutual fascination with afflictions that maim and disfigure and disgust: He brings up cancrum oris, in which bacteria eat away at your face until you get kind of a window in the side of your head and the entire world sees your teeth; I mention cyclic vomiting syndrome, a condition in which you puke literally all the goddamn time; he delights in lymphatic filariasis, where parasitic worms burrow into your lymph nodes and can make your balls swell to the size of watermelons, forcing you to tote them around in a wheelbarrow.
We come up with a blockbuster hit movie, entitled Candiru Infestation, about a tiny fish that swims up your urethra and into your urinary tract and lodges in your cock with backward-facing umbrella spikes it shoots from its spine.
FROM DETAILS
THANKS TO @Celz29 FROM TWITTER FOR THE TIP
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