Surf’s up. In the late-summer daze, due to the death of John Hughes (RIP!) and to a recent late-night bar conversation I had about Donny Osmond, I decided to delve into Teen Celeb-Crushes and Scandals. Huffington Post has a new poll rating Chris Brown and Britney Spears as the ‘top’ Teen Celeb. Scandals — WDYT?
And what about your own teen celebrity crushes, from those summers of yesteryear? Recently I chatted with singer Lynda D’Amour; Lynda’s teen celeb-crush was Donny Osmond. Michelle Soucy posted on my Facebook page a blast-from-the-past YouTube video of her teen crush– Monkee Davy Jones. Did anyone but me clip Bobby Sherman ‘records’ off the backs of cereal boxes?
Share your thoughts/memories about your ‘first’ celeb-crushes and/or about today’s teen faves. Are you following any of their scandals? (I brake for Britney news…)
Meanwhile, pause to remember teen-angst king John Hughes; my favorite Hughes commentaries are from Molly Ringwald and the ‘real’ Ferris Bueller.
Also check out the Simon & Schuster anthology edited by Jaime Clarke: DON’T YOU FORGET ABOUT ME: CONTEMPORARY WRITERS ON THE FILMS OF JOHN HUGHES. I’m included with my essay on Molly Ringwald, THE SCREAM, WITH LIPGLOSS.
And watch for the forthcoming film on Hughes & why his teen flicks beat out today’s: DON’T YOU FORGET ABOUT ME. I’m in the film holding forth about how Hughes’ teens actually look like real teens (ie, with acne & w/o implants).
My first star crush was on The Beatles– all four of them. I distinctly remember watching them on Ed Sullivan for the first time, sitting crosslegged in front of a television with rabbit ear antennae, and thinking the band looked kind of silly in their matching collarless jackets and what was considered long hair. Then they all sang “Ooooooo” in unison (I think it was “She Loves You, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah”) and shook their moppy heads, and my mother threw up her arms and spit in disgust, saying, “They’re awful! That hair! Ugh!” I was only ten years old, but that’s when I knew I loved them.
Beatles’ trading cards were sold in packets of five with a stick of crumbly, pink, inedible bubble gum. I tossed the gum out, but put the cards in an album. Forty-some years later, I still have them! I’m so tired of their music that I can’t stand it, but I will never throw those cards out. Why do we hang on to these things? It makes me think of a few lines from poet Thomas Lux’s wonderful poem, titled “Frankly, I Don’t Care”:
“We the people, the day-laboring citizens, need to love
those of you larger than us, those who teeth
are like floodlights against loneliness,
whose great gifts of song, or for joke telling,
or thespianly sublime transformations,
take us, for whole moments at a time, away
from ourselves…”
Wow Linda: I love the moment you pinpoint when you knew you loved the Beatles and I love the Lux poem too– that poem should be on the masthead of this Blog, if we had a masthead- Since we don’t, maybe I could post this comment on the StarLit. page? Thanxx– ELizabeth
FROM TANYA EBY–
THIS JUST IN ON THE StarLit. Page:
Confession: Star Love Affairs
By Tanya Eby
I’m thirty-six years old and so I confess I have had a string of lovers over the years. Some of them better than others, but all of them, (from the first one when I was sixteen, to my current love) have one thing in common: they are completely obsessed with me. They simply cannot get enough of me. I’m funny, beautiful, and wildly, deeply alluring. It’s a curse, really, but I endure.
My first lover: I was 16 and met him in the pages of a Teen Beat (or whatever) magazine. River Phoenix winked at me from the pages and with his messy blonde hair, and intense gaze, I knew he didn’t really belong there. He was too cool for that. Still, I ripped him out and put him above my bed where he would gaze at me for hours. I knew we’d meet someday, was absolutely certain of it, but of course, we did not, and then he died. Such sadness when you lose your first love.
That was a platonic affair.
Passion came later. With Harrison Ford first, who adored me since Star Wars, stayed with me through Indiana Jones, and even through Patriot Games. He was the first to pin me against the wall in his Millenium Falcon and say, “Please, kiss me, Tanya. Right now. There’s no fighting me. I want you.” “Oh,” I said and then opened my mouth. Then, well, he turned and said: “Chewbacca knock it off!” but immediately refocused on me and kissed the slope of my neck. I felt electricity, just like they do in good romance novels. I felt throbbing. “Don’t move,” he whispered, his words hot against my throat. “It’s against the rules.” An ‘oh’ again from me, which was really more of a breath. And then, oh, passion. And laser beams. But mostly passion.
My long-term affair is with Matt Damon. He’s my pseudo-lover. He takes me to restaurants and insists on paying. We love crispy fish ‘n’ chips, New York style pizza, sushi. He doesn’t want much from me. Just my company. Just to talk about acting and writing and ideas I have. He’s a good listener. He rubs my feet.
Lately, my lover is Gerard Butler. He simply adores me. He’s intense and moody, but sometimes soft and gentle. A little work, but that’s okay. He adores every inch of me and when he looks at me, I melt just a little bit.
Of course, my lovers aren’t real. I know that. I’m only occasionally delirious. But they do fill a little empty space in my life, a place where I exist as someone wholly desirable and witty and talented. To be loved, desired, adored, even when I’m without makeup and my hair is frizzy, well, that’s a wonderful thing. And while I have had real lovers (and even a husband) they never quite meet the magic of an imagined one.
Still, though, recently, I was standing, pressed against the wall and I actually heard the words “Please, kiss me,” and it was better than Harrison Ford. True, we were in a living room and not a starship, but Chewbacca wasn’t there, and his real kisses were nicer than the phantom touch of Harrison Ford’s. And now, when I think about it, when I fantasize, it’s the real ones I remember most. My celebrity lovers understand. They wish me well. They say they are always there for me, when I need them. They will always love me, no matter what mistakes I make. It’s a big reason why I have Netflix.
Ooh– Tanya– love how you Tell All and love this line especially:
“Still, I ripped him out and put him above my bed where he would gaze at me for hours.”
I’m posting this one right away on StarLit. proper (as opposed to StarLit. comments– so it’ll be a permanent part of the StarLit. collection!) THANXX Tanya, our # 1 post-er who first opened the Dream Door– The Harrison F. fantasy rocks–
Elizabeth
My first celebrity crush was Stevie Nicks!! So in love with her, I was.
I not only love her too, I do a pretty fair imitation of her sexily nasal singing on that song about the Crystal Visions…where she says I Keep My Visions to Myself–
Does anyone else think the Lay Me Down in the Tall Grass song by Fleetwood is one of the sexiest ever?
Elizabeth
Barbara Bain, who played Cinnamon on the original Mission Impossible TV series.
Her job was uncovering secrets, and at the time for me sex was the biggest secret of them all.
I (or my libido at least) will never forget the scene where the MI team is about to be arrested by some iron curtain-type officers. The team is pretending to be a movie production crew, and Barney is filming a “fantasy sequence” set in a prison cell. Cinnamon slowly starts to undress. The officers are spellstruck, making it easy for Willy to clobber them from behind. Then Cinnamon complains to Barney: “you waited two buttons too long”.
Whoa, hot posting, Littotes–
And your Uncovering Secrets line = Best Metaphor of Blog (so far–) Thanxx– Elizabeth
Bye Bye Birdie was playing at the Palace. I had seen it the night before and I knew one thing for sure. I wanted to be Ann-Margret. It was 1963 and I was nine years old and I wanted to dye my hair red, ooh and ahh about wanting “one boy, one special boy” and then finally drop the good boy for the bad boy and basically do whatever I damn well pleased.
Suddenly, Marilyn Monroe was dead.
Doris Day was history.
Shirley Temple was for babies.
It was a new era.
I was done with being a child. After all, I was practically a teenager!
“I’m going to dye my hair red, I told my best friend.
“You’re crazy,” she told me.
But what did she know. She didn’t believe in the power of Ann-Margret. The power of being bad. Dangerous. But then, she didn’t own a gold stingray bike with butterfly handles and a leopard banana seat and I did. She didn’t have a grandmother who spoke English with a French accent. And, she didn’t have a mother who had just been sent to the mental hospital for “a little rest.”
“Well, I’m still Connie Francis,” she said.
“That’s fine with me,” I told her and in that moment, I knew our paths had just diverged. Just like Robert Frost talked about. I would be with Ann-Margret. And my friend would be with Connie Francis. She would be the good girl.
And I would be the bad girl. The girl with the red hair.
I’m the author of “French Women Don’t Sleep Alone: Pleasurable Secrets to Finding Love” and I was a red head until 2005 when I finally decided I’d go blonde.
You go, girl!
Jamie, THANXX– and yes, all juicy-comment-readers & Ann Margaret fans need to check out French Women Don’t Sleep Alone…
This brought back Ann Margaret to me in all her Kitten With a Whip glory– xxx– Elizabeth
My best friend Shaun Olson and I took turns borrowing Baryshnikov’s biography from the library. He was a more sophisticated heartthrob than whoever was on the cover of Teen Beat or Tiger Beat. Nobody else at Frankfort Junior High cared about Baryshnikov. He was ours.
Shaun’s mom told us if we each gave her $30, she’d write the check for $60 and mail it to the American Ballet Theater, which would make us Household Supporting Members and get us passes to an open rehearsal forty miles away at the Auditorium Theater in Chicago, “champagne reception to follow.” My mom said ok, she’d write the note to get me out of school that day as long as it was my own money, and if Mrs. Olson would drive us downtown.
I wore a gray blazer and pencil skirt from my sister’s closet, and the nude pantyhose and black shoes I usually only wore to sing in choir concerts. The outfit had made me sweat all morning in school but would be great for the champagne reception: The skirt would cling just right while I stood at the bottom of the marble staircase, if there was one, probably with my back against the wall and one hand on my hip. Probably that would be my left hand, and my right would go around the glass of champagne. As an underage patron, I’d have the class not to drink anything, but I’d definitely hold the glass which would probably be a wide shallow one, not a flute. Also, when Baryshnikov arrived and moved from guest to guest to thank us for coming, I wouldn’t talk right away. I’d follow his face with my eyes, which were lined in tasteful Wet-n-Wild navy blue, and when he looked at me, I would smile (mouth closed over my braces) and possibly nod in a way that would let him know I appreciated and understood his work.
During the rehearsal, Shaun and I held hands and leaned forward over the railing of the second balcony. Baryshnikov was far away but that was fine. It was all I could stand to know I was in the same room with him, watching his actual body move and hearing the pound of his actual feet.
Today, I know that regular lust makes my thighs warm and art-love makes them shake with cold. In the Auditorium Theater, my legs were freezing. They were panty-hose popsicles bouncing up and down with readiness to make sweet art with the greatest dancer in the world. I couldn’t dance, but I was a section leader in choir and got good grades in art and writing. Something would work. Misha was known for innovation. Surely, during the champagne reception, he’d recognize the potential in me. After that, who knew. People had dropped out of eighth grade for less soul-satisfying reasons.
There weren’t any stairs at the reception. The guests were just a bunch of people who looked like they’d paid to be there, too, or else they worked at the Auditorium Theater. Shaun or I must have asked somebody with a name tag when the dancers were coming, and they must have explained that that wasn’t part of the deal at the $60 level, because on the ride home I read and re-read the donor list in the Stagebill, and thought, why would all these people give money if they already knew they’d be holding a plastic cup in a side room with a bunch of other regular people? The lining of my sister’s blazer was damp and smelly. She was going to be mad. Baryshnikov was probably toweling off backstage before he walked down Congress to the Artist’s Café, flanked by ballerinas.
I’ve seen him dance a few times since then. Once, in Minneapolis, I waited on a sidewalk outside the stage door for a couple of hours until he exited the theater, and I gave him a rose wrapped in a calla lily leaf, which he handed to his bodyguard. Once, when I had a layover in New York I walked about a million blocks with my carry-on luggage to the newly leased office space of the Baryshnikov Arts Center, so I could see what the lobby looked like. Through the glass door, I saw the receptionist, a woman who spent her days answering the phone “Baryshnikov Arts Center, how may I help you?” Envy kept me from walking through the door. Also holding me back was the fact that I had no reason to be there.
Today, if asked by the receptionist, I’d say I had some short stories that might interest Misha. I understand from a recent New York Times interview that he’s looking for new work that suits his aging body – he’s 61, and still dances but with fewer leaps and twirls.
None of my stories demand leaping. Most of them don’t even need movement. He could just stand there, slightly off-center on a bare stage, and read my work aloud, daring the audience to feel the dance in his voice. Or we could have coffee (to help keep my legs warm) and talk about the similarities in our aesthetic (my love of flash fiction, his short stature) or how we each felt about his guest appearance on Sex and the City (I tolerated the dalliance; he’d probably confide that he did it just to fund the Arts Center).
Or maybe his abilities will diminish to a point where he’s relatively level with my longtime lack of grace and agility. In which case, Misha, http://www.annrosenquistfee.com. Lots of stories. Some with thighs and sweat. Any one would make an excellent pas-de-deux.
Ann– this is so sexy and intense; love the line:
“to make sweet art with the greatest dancer in the world.”
I can feel the cold and heat and pencil skirt– not to mention that greatest dancer in the world.
Would love to get this up on Star.Lit– you are a blogging star and yes, those interested in more sexy intense writings from Ann must visit http://www.annrosenquistfee.com–
xx from a fan– Elizabeth
I probably echo every other gay man or straight girl who was an adolescent in the 90′s when I say my first teen crush was Jonathan Brandis. How can you not love Bastian Bux (talk about a regal name) from The Neverending Story? Anyone who rode Falcor is welcome for another on my disco stick.
Once I saw him in Ladybugs (I lived with a deeply religious aunt and uncle who were into the ‘family friendly’ movie rental circuit) my attraction to him became heavily sexual, even with the distraction of that gorgeous and always original Rodney Dangerfield in the other starring role.
And yes I’m man enough to admit to snatching the Jonathan Brandis cover BOP zines right off of the rack (because buying them would be too scandalous for a twelve year old boy)…and bringing them home to write….essays about. like this one.
We won’t even get into SeaQuest. Or how I almost chose Corey Haim (can anyone say License to Drive???)…but after watching that reality show The Two Coreys (which I might add is nothing less than a slice of television heaven) starring Haim alongside Corey Feldman, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. He looks too much like a cracked out, 65 yr old midwestern female prostitute. Or Tammy Faye without the makeup. Apologies to Tammy.
Hi Jeremy– Thanks at 2AM for this eye-opening account. And I hope all teens stealing zines will follow your lead–
“… bringing them home to write….essays about. like this one.”
XX & be sure to visit again so you can even more fully cover SeaQuest–
Elizabeth
This just in from screenwriter CAITLIN McCARTHY:
“Confessions of a Would-Be Duran Duran Groupie”
Spring, 1984. I was on the edge of fourteen, about to graduate from a Catholic junior high school. Sporting a Princess Diana haircut, I had already graduated into my first full-blown celebrity crush: John Taylor of Duran Duran.
MTV entered my house in 1983. I immediately spotted John in the onslaught of Duran Duran videos and knew we were destined to be together. An Ouija board even confirmed this fact during a sleepover at my best friend Jennifer Smith’s house. (She was going to marry John’s band mate Nick Rhodes, so it was perfect — we could all travel the world together.)
I started sneaking hydrogen peroxide into the bathroom at home, so I could streak my bangs blond like John. My mother hit the roof when my brown hair started to turn orange and yellow (and not in a cool punk way). I blamed it on the sun.
I hung a Tiger Beat poster of John in the back of my closet, so I could see him in the morning when I put on my Catholic school uniform. (If I were of legal age, this image probably would have thrilled him!)
I scoured every teen magazine for updates on John and wondered when he’d leave dreary England and come to my dreary hometown — Worcester, Massachusetts — to support his band’s latest album “Seven and the Ragged Tiger.” We had so much in common. I was sure of that. I didn’t even mind that his first name was really Nigel.
Finally, the big announcement came over local radio: Duran Duran would play the Worcester Centrum on March 14, 1984. I had never been to a rock concert before, but I was sure as hell going to this one — even if it meant bringing my non-Duranie big sister Erin with me as a chaperone.
My tween mind immediately shifted into overdrive: How could I meet John? The thought of staking out his hotel didn’t occur to me. I was truly innocent back then, in a way tweenagers aren’t these days. I thought of sending him a letter, but I didn’t have his address. It’d never get to him on time if I mailed something to his record label.
Then brilliance struck. I’d write an editorial for Worcester’s Evening Gazette, which would be sure to attract John’s attention. Everyone reads newspapers, right? (Insert laughter here.) In the 5th grade, I had published poems in the newspaper’s “Happy Time” section for kids. But by 6th grade, I had “outgrown” that and started writing editorials in the “Time Out” section for adults (not to be confused with porn, thank you very much!). The newspaper and I had a relationship. Maybe it’d help me start a relationship with John!
During Math class, I tuned out Sister I-Forget-Her-Name and wrote an ode to Duran Duran in my notebook. Instead of making John the focus, I branched out and detailed the entire band’s fabulousness. That way, no feelings would be hurt and the guys would all support my “relationship” with John.
Below is my ode in its entirety (yes, I saved it):
Duran Duran: One of the Greatest
While reading the Time Out section of the paper I was happy to find a long overdue article on one of the greatest groups of the past four decades, Duran Duran. The music, lyrics, videos — it all fits together to form a well-balanced band.
Duran Duran has been criticized for relying too much on expensive videos and their handsome good looks. For one thing, no matter how expensive a video is or how good looking you are, it will not put you on top of the music charts. You have to have talent and determination, which Duran Duran definitely possesses.
The group has frequently been compared to the Beatles, due to the group’s large success and the reactions of their fans. The press has dubbed Duran Duran as the “Fab Five” as opposed to a certain “Fab Four.” Simon Le Bon has been quoted at a press conference, “We’re interested in writing our own history, not writing somebody else’s.” And to me, that is what makes success.
Caitlin McCarthy
[Address Removed]
Worcester
Much to my surprise, the “Time Out” section not only ran my editorial, it put a thick black box around it. I realize now that someone at the newspaper must have found my comments cute. But as a tween, I believed that a guardian angel was helping my cause by making sure the item was highlighted so the band would see it when they rolled into town. Back then, the newspaper published the addresses of people who wrote editorials. I thought John could use it when calling 411 to get my number, because he’d be dying to speak with the author of this insightful editorial. I envisioned myself meeting John backstage at the Centrum and maybe, just maybe, getting my first kiss from him. (I never thought about what else could happen with John…remember, I was a painfully naïve 13-year-old.)
Duran Duran played Worcester that March. I was there, in the Centrum’s nosebleed section with Jennifer and my snickering sister Erin. I never met John because he never called me. Sigh.
But my editorial *did* trigger responses from other people. Female tween Duranies from the Worcester area started sending me letters at home, saying they loved the band, too. I started penpalling with them, and eventually we created our own Duran Duran fan club. We’d meet at each other’s houses and watch the band’s music videos on the VCR, pausing the tapes every once in a while so we could “Ooh” and “Aah” over certain guys (John got the most requests). The “Rio” video was a particular favorite of ours.
Many years later, John Taylor married and divorced a presenter from a British TV show, then married one of the co-founders of Juicy Couture. He never married me. I’m still writing, though — for the big screen as well as magazines and blogs. So John, if you ever read this, I don’t expect you to divorce your wife. But a kiss on the cheek — after all of these years — would still rock my world.
THANKS THANKS Caitlin
for this vivid flashback to
DURAN DURAN–
Love the Lady Di haircut, the orange dye job, the Tiger Beat poster, and ending it with a kiss…
Watch for this on the StarLit. page–
Elizabeth
I’ve got a little (actually two) Duran Duran stories of my own. I’ve always been a huge fan…and I mean always. The first music video I ever saw was Planet Earth, and as soon as I got a look at Nick Rhodes, I said, “I wanna’ look like THAT guy!”
Of course, I was living in a really rough neighborhood and looking like “that guy” would have been a one way ticket to ass-kicked city. So I keep my Duran fandom tucked safely in the closet next to my affinity for Prince. We were pretty poor, so going to see them in concert was going to have to wait.
Flash forward about two decades. I was working in a bar/pizza joint and we get this call. “Do you guys deliver?” No. “Would you deliver to Duran Duran.” We figured it had to be a joke…but as it turned out it wasn’t. So we not only delivered them pizza, but got to meet them and see the show for free. (side note, my wife came along and almost fainted…she was a big fan too)
Now this was the “Pop Trash” tour so at that point the only original members were Nick and Simon (Warren was there too, though…and although he doesn’t count as original, he did play on “The Wedding Album”), so as cool as it was to meet them…it still wasn’t totally there.
…so flash forward again another four years. The original lineup has reunited and I’m on the set of my movie “Slingshot.” Those two events should have been totally unrelated but as it turns out, they weren’t. I come to find out that one of the actresses playing a small role in the film was Nick Rhodes’ girlfriend. She was a real sweetheart and when the reunion tour came to MSG, she was kind enough to hook me up with a couple of tickets. And there they were, all five of them, sounding better than ever.
…p.s. (Caitlin) I have an Aria Pro II SB sitting on my wall, and I can play “Rio” just like John Taylor…provided that he’s totally drunk.
OMG– were they wearing full make-up when you delivered the pizzas?? This is such a great celeb. story, I’ve want to post it on StarLit. And I want to go Google Rio…
Two for John Hughes
About nine years ago I was in a production of Macbeth up in Hartford. Also in the cast was Carol Schneider who was married to Andrew McCarthy at the time. Carol was really a bright spot in that cast, and I particularly remember spending a pleasant night playing cards with her and soon-to-be Tony Award winner Denis O’Hare.
But back to McCarthy. At that point in my career celebrity spottings were still kind of rare, and there…sitting in the green room a lot of afternoons, waiting for his wife…was Andrew McCarthy. It was a bit odd at first, but I got used to it. Now a lot has been written about “Pretty in Pink” (see Libby Cudmore’s excellent “I Am Mr. Right?” feature in PopMatters) and I’m not going to pass judgement here about the ending…but I will say this. He’s really short.
About five years later, I’m working in a posh hotel bar in Midtown. I was searching in vain for something in the back (mainly because the place was designed by the owner’s niece who had apparently learned design as part of her arts and crafts classes at Bellevue). When I emerged, my manager tells me, “Hurry up. The Breakfast Club is at your bar.”
I wasn’t quite sure what she meant until I turned the corner a there was Anthony Michael Hall sitting there, the place empty except for him. Now he’s not short…6’1″ easy. He ordered, and after about five minutes, I just couldn’t take it any more. I said, “I’m probably going to be the only person to tell you this, but…”
He looked up from his Grey Goose martini with eyes that seemed to say, “Kid, what could you possibly have to say that I haven’t heard already? That “Weird Science” is one of your favorite movies? That you still crack up when “Sixteen Candles” is on TNT? That you really identified with my character in “Breakfast Club?” I’ve heard it all, so save it, and let me enjoy my drink in peace.”
Now, while all of that was probably true, what I said was, “I thought you were really funny in “Freddy Got Fingered.” (which is true…I will go to my grave defending that sorely under-appreciated work of genius)
He froze. “You know what,” he said. “You ARE the first person to ever tell me that. I loved working on that. We won a Golden Rasperry for that, you know? What’s your name, by the way…” From then on we ended up having a great conversation with topics ranging from how much we both like Joyce Carol Oates (I was reading “On Boxing” at the time) to how my manager was really pretty (I told him he was barking up the wrong lesbian)…none of it involved John Hughes.
Anthony Michael Hall + Joyce Carol Oates–
hmm; great to know this and I bet their connection goes beyond both having three-name names, as both are also such primal artists of darkest teen angst…
Thanks for adding some real-life run-ins with celebs to our blog– Elizabeth
I actually met Anthony Michael Hall in 1999 when he attended the screening of his film “Pirates of Silicon Valley” at the Seattle International Film Festival. He was incredibly friendly — probably because I brought up Cape Cod, where I knew he had a place. (He’s from Massachusetts, like me.) I always thought Michael’s performance in that film deserved an award. (His real first name is Michael.) Hope he gets a chance to stretch actingwise in the future. He was one of my favorite Brat Packers. Emilio Estevez had the top spot in my book!
Yes, Anthony Michael Hall– I love the ‘Shop room’ scene between him and Molly Ringwald in 16 Candles. He’s the most endearing of the Brat Pack. We now have two eyewitnesses on the blog testifying that he is endearing in real life too.
Thanks Caitlin for this and here’s hoping you and AMH meet again on the sands of Cape Cod…
PS: Yes, Love Emilio E. too– those handstands!
Great site, good job!
Thanks so much, 2OOBIE and feel free to stop by again sometime!
Elizabeth
Hello sweetie, nice website! I genuinely appreciate this post.. I was curious about this for a long time now. This cleared a lot up for me! Do you have a rss feed that I can add?
I would have to say that my first celebrity crush was (and still is) Daniel Radcliffe.He is a brilliant actor and majorly attractive. I just love those green eyes and that mega-sexy English accent of his. I love that scene in The Deathly Hallows Pt.1 where he kisses Bonnie Wright. Sexiest.Kiss Scene.Ever.
I remember feeling a little jealous….Sigh…
Hi Alexandria & thanks for invoking Daniel R. so vividly– yes, the green eyes and the sexy accent put him up there. I loved that onscreen kiss too. And then it was very chilling in the second to last movie when in the frozen pond fantasy he and Hermione were all over each other. Cheers to HP and company- Elizabeth
Cheers!!!!!! I know. I wished my Bf would kiss me like that ha ha ha!
Yes, the whole Harry Potter saga is so great at playing on Friendship Fantasies… Harry, Hermione and Ron are an erotically charged trio in their way…
I always thought I was the only one who thought Daniel Radcliffe to be attractive- Guess I’m not weird after all…
You will find on the blog you are ‘never alone’– we have another interesting ‘crush confession’ coming up soon so stay tuned!
Thanks, will do