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About this Site

...or everything you never really wanted to know anyway, but you clicked the link out of curiousity and now here you are....

Yes, another bored, middle-aged housewife with a computer and too much time on her hands. That sums up the genesis of this site. I'm learning that I've bitten off a bit more than I can chew though. Ciaran's body of work is enormous and its taking me ages to track down obscure films, cancelled television shows and audio performances. But you know what? I'm having fun. I'm an even bigger fan of this man than when I started. His talent is truly amazing. I'm also having fun meeting fellow fans and joining in the sisterhood of drool.

This site will never become one of those typically fawning fansites. Why? because from what I've read, its something that makes CH very uncomfortable. Instead, this site will be pretty much an encyclopedia of all things Ciaran. An online resume or CV. I'm also a keen researcher, so if there is news out there on any new productions...I'll try to post it.

I hope you enjoy the site. Take your time and really explore. I believe there are hours of reading to be had. For the casual fan, I hope this site fuels your excitement and turns you into a die-hard fan. For the die-hard fans, I hope this site meets your expectations and keeps you coming back. I like feedback (positive preferred!), so drop me a line if you are so inclined. Just click on my pic!

My 3 sons, with friend, Arnold Vosloo (The Mummy).

Here is an excellent article written by Eileen Bordy. I think it sums up my life pretty well and offers a very plausible explanation for this site! (just substitute 'Ciaran' for 'Matt' and "Persuasion" for "The Bourne Identity" and you've got it!) Enjoy!    ~Lori



The Damon and Mrs. Jones: He plays a sensitive, accomplished assassin who's never changed a diaper


My friend Katie has a thing for Viggo Mortensen, the actor who plays Aragorn in "Lord of the Rings." Tucked away in her purse she carries a 2-inch photo of him cut from the pages of People magazine.

Even this grainy image makes her swoon.

While her husband and children sleep, she drinks tequila and watches Viggo's movies alone on her sofa, pausing on his close-ups.

In the dark of night, who's to see if her lips brush against the TV screen? Although she is committed to her husband Jeff, she has declared Viggo her soul mate. Katie recently asked Jeff to let his hair grow past his shoulders, the way Viggo wears it.

When I asked Jeff if this bothered him, he replied that anything that makes Katie want to have sex with him is OK.

I, on the other hand, felt the need to set Katie straight on how silly she looked before she flew to New York and began stalking Viggo. Viggo is, after all, an actor and probably has never picked up a sword or ridden a horse in his (real) life. His whole bad-ass/good-heart persona is a big fantasy. I sat Katie down and asked her to recall our high-school drama clubs -- those pasty-face kids who recited Shakespeare and laughed at the English teacher's jokes. "That's Viggo," I said, "only grown-up."

"Yes," Katie replied, taking a slug from her margarita. "But I looked him up on the Internet, and not only is he an actor but a poet, exhibited painter, accomplished swordsman and horse owner."

I didn't stand a chance. Neither did Jeff, for that matter. But I still had to balk at the pointlessness of her efforts. I got 306,000 hits for him on Google. The more famous he got, the harder he would be to meet, and that was the whole point, right?

And then it happened to me. I, too, fell for a formerly pasty-faced drama geek: Matt Damon. Our affair began in January, when my husband, Alan, brought home the DVD of "The Bourne Identity." Matt plays an accomplished, intelligent and sensitive guy, a 21st century Aragorn.

That evening, after my family went to bed, I stayed up alone and watched the movie. The first 45 minutes I could appreciate his handsome face and sculpted body but was more interested in the red wine I was drinking. Then lightning struck; when he enveloped "the girl" in his arms and placed his full lips on hers, I nearly fell off the sofa. By the end of the movie, my relationship with Matt was clinched. I ran to my computer and Googled him -- 545,000 sites devoted to Matt came up, many of which I studied until the rosy- fingered dawn.

Viggo may be a poet, but Matt wrote a screenplay that won an Academy Award. We had so much in common. We both love language and drama, and I wish I'd gone to Harvard. I learned other statistics, too: his height, his age (close enough to mine to be legal) and the rumor that he may or may not be engaged to some young chippie who he had apparently presented with a two-carat diamond -- a humble and endearing size, considering his net worth.

I began checking my favorite site, the Matt Damon column, daily to find out whether the rumor was true. A few weeks went by before I realized that maybe, possibly, my grip was slipping and that my time might be better spent feeding my children than checking up on Matt's social life.

Like Katie, my obsession with Matt didn't spring from any unhappiness with my life. Sure, I could use more money and a maid, but who couldn't? Mostly, I was content. So what would drive Katie and me, two nearly sane, almost normal women to behave like our teenage baby sitters? What was missing?

I gave it some thought and believe I have an answer: We miss men. Not our familiar, been-there/done-that husbands, but men who haven't seen us give birth. Katie and I used to have jobs. We used to be productive and witty. And, most important, we used to spend a good amount of time with a variety of men during the day.

In my small office, it wasn't sexual harassment but sexual tension that ricocheted off the cubicle walls.

Little flirtations bloomed in hallways and coffee rooms. This just doesn't happen at the park, even if the ice cream man is close by. My current community is a homogenous mix of 8- and 5-year-olds and their mothers. They are amusing and I love them, but I miss the tingle of being close to a warm man emanating that unique scent of soap and deodorant and a fresh-from-the- cleaners shirt.

I miss being around a man who is doing something productive other than throwing his dirty socks in a hamper or taking out the garbage, a man who is engaged and interested in what I have to say without being distracted by some little human hanging off his leg.

I miss meetings where I can fantasize about sleeping with the tall man across the table and wonder whether the presenter has a hairy chest or if his arms are covered with that soft fuzz some men have. Trapped in my house or station wagon, my pheromones have nowhere to go.

There is something exciting about developing a relationship with a man who doesn't know me as a wife or mother, but as an intelligent member of society. This explains why all the other men in my suburban housewife life don't count: other dads (being friends with the guy's wife hampers flirting); bag boys and store clerks (too busy to stop and chat); sales/repairmen (too vulnerable flirting with your bedroom in view).

Since I stepped out of the corporate world, I am no longer part of an old tribe: the working. It is not a fraternity limited to men. One evening over wine, Alan and my friend Susanne began discussing employee performance reviews, an area where I have no experience. I offered my advice anyway until it became clear that my skills at managing children didn't translate to adults. I spent the rest of the evening flipping through a magazine and drinking the wine as fast as I could. I'd hit rock bottom; I couldn't even hold the attention of my own husband. It didn't matter that I tried to keep fit and fashionable and well-read; I still came up short and, short of getting a job, would remain so.

Is it any wonder that, like Katie, I'm dallying with some pixelated image on a TV screen? The only safe and available men that I get to spend any significant amount of time with are the Matt's of the world, even if it's all in my head, which is probably why my husband finds the obsession amusing and not threatening. He'd worry if I were Internet-stalking someone I actually knew. I don't know Matt from Adam.

He's simply a blank slate who's never argued with me about cleaning the toilet.

I know that I'll never experience firsthand Matt's slightly crooked smile or feel his arms around me.

But I don't actually want to consummate our relationship, do I? There is a safety in dreaming about a man at work or on film -- a cushiony barrier between the sheets and the impossibility of it ever happening.

Which is not to say that I wouldn't jump at the chance to have coffee with Matt for purely professional reasons. I have this idea for a screenplay that I'd love to work on with him. That's truly my ultimate fantasy.

Eileen Bordy lives her real and fantasy life in San Carlos. Her work has appeared in the Chicago Tribune and Brain, Child magazine.