Category Archives: Blog

So It’s Really A Fag Hag Thing

We’ve gotten to the bottom of Gwyneth Paltrow’s recent appearances on Glee.  I draw your attention to this little item in Nikki Finke’s Deadline.com, in which show creator Ryan Murphy outs Gwyneth for who she truly is to him.  For those too lazy to click, I refer you to the following quotation:

“Gwyneth is sort of the muse of the show,” Murphy said. “She’s somebody who I write on the weekends and say, ‘What do you think about this for an episode even if you’re not in it?’ She has opinions. She’s great.”

Like in "Avatar," "How to Train Your Dragon," and "Eragon," where the dragon chooses the rider who will fly her, a Fag Hag chooses her Ghey and they bond for life.

Murphy is hiding behind subtleties that many creative Gheys might not see themselves, which is why Dr. Killough is here to explain.  He uses the word “muse.”  But a muse is distant, an inspiration, someone the artist aspires to commune with, a siren who unblocks the creative flow just by being there.  Gwyneth is the muse transformed, the mermaid wrenched willingly from the sea and forced to walk on land.  She has become Murphy’s Fag Hag.

Apparently she has been this since they worked together on Running With Scissors, Murphy’s decidedly unfunny adaptation of Augusten Burrough’s exceedingly funny memoir.  He should have gone with archly flip for RWS’s tone, not with sincerity and contrition.  I’m sure he knows that now with the tone he established in Glee, which would have served RWS better.

A true muse is someone like my creative partner, Rain Li, who basically ignores you, making you desire his or her company and the inspiration that it gives you all the more.  Rain and I hardly ever speak on the phone; I’m lucky to get a text-based Skype session once a quarter, during which she types one line every ten minutes until I just give up at 2 a.m.  I won’t hear from her for months, but then a single “You aw-right, dahling?” in that mockney Beijing accent and my entire career path becomes clear to me.  That’s a muse. Continue reading

5 Comments

Filed under Blog, Killough Chronicles

Mourning the Spineless Penis

According to my personal lexicon, a spineless dick is what I call a good friend who won’t go into overdraft to loan me more money.  According to the Guardian, the scientific community is all a-flutter over the discovery that we men have shed the DNA responsible for allowing us to have spines in our penises like other mammals.  The dickhead creationists will probably cite this lack of penile backbone as incontrovertible proof that we were actually created by God, not descended from apes through evolution.  I say to them, Verily, thou shouldst have more faith in science than fruitloops juju mumbo jumbo, for hath not science replaced the penile backbone with Viagra?  Is Pfizer not therefore divine?

Speaking of spineless dicks, I cannot resist reposting this image with a new caption:

Radical feminist poet and playwright Mama Muamah Gaddafi, author of “For Bedouin Girls, Who Have Considered Homicide When the Sand Dunes Are Too Ruff,” shows her followers that you don’t have to wear trousers to behave like a man.

I was right about the atrocities, they’re trickling out already: apparently Mama Gaddafi has swept out the dungeon and has been sharpening her knives and waxing the rack.  Some BBC journalists she had a stab at are reporting widespread torture by Mama’s minions.  Where does evil like that come from, do you suppose?  I’ve been watching Lady Gaga’s new video over and over for the answers, but her creation myth is just as bat-shit loony as anyone else’s.

Continue reading

5 Comments

Filed under Blog, Killough Chronicles

The Execrable Susan Blais

Well, I’ve had my day in court.  Now that the records are sealed and a settlement has been reached, I can blog the fuck out of this.

For those of you just joining this blog/tirade, or blogirade, and for those of you who have been following it but are confused as to the details of what has led me to chronicle my fight with my landlady, Susan Blais, these are the broad strokes of what happened.

Another iconic image from Nick Knight, the director of Lady Gaga's latest video. I see this as symbolic of what it's like to take me on. So I'm full of myself. Yeah well.

Continue reading

9 Comments

Filed under Blog, Killough Chronicles

Desert Lesbian Realness

The best thing about these blogs is I sit here tinkling away at the keyboard some evenings — and you’d think I was high as a kite the way they come out, but I’m not, haven’t even had a drink since New Years — grinning like Liberace rolling on E while he plays the Turkish March for the blue-rinse brigade in Vegas.  Sometimes I will write something that catches me completely unaware and I snort and Coke Zero goes through my nose and onto the keyboard.

It’s not Spanking Galliano that gets me going these days, that’s sort of sad in a twisted way, and it’s certainly not the Satanic Natalie Portman.  It’s Mama Gaddafi from the House of Gaddafi.  I’m feeling a need to repost that image from an earlier blog with the caption:

Still furious about his exclusion from the seminal documentary on black drag queens,"Paris Is Burning," Mama Gaddafi from the House of Gaddafi vogues Pan-Arab Tyrant Realness while Our Fearful Leader tries not to giggle, lest Miss Thing bomb a United jumbo this time, now that Pan Am has gone out of business.

Continue reading

4 Comments

Filed under Blog, Killough Chronicles

It’s a Shithole, So Keep Digging

Look at what I found on the stairwell of my tenement-slash-college dorm this morning:

Hey, as long as it's got carpeting, it's a bed.

He’s part of the musician crew from the studio apartment across from mine, the place I described in an earlier post as reminding me of how many musicians you can fit with their instruments into a phone booth.  They’re the ones who have no furniture, so they all sleep on the floor and vacuum once a day rather than making the bed.  So glamorous.

I went on a hike yesterday with my friend James Tuttle up to the Hollywood Sign and around Hollywoodland.  When we were still at the base of the hills, we were treated to another ultra-glamorous sight of some smack-head weaving past us, stopping his car, rolling down his window and projectile vomiting onto the street.  Because we were on foot, we had to walk past a streak of barf now decorating the path.  Ten yards later, he stopped again, opened the door this time and spewed once more, even more copiously.  Given that both Tuttle and I are gay men named James with rapid-fire, caustic senses of humor, it was astounding that we didn’t have much to say.  I believe I was processing a thought something like: if a black cat crossing you path is bad luck, what is someone puking across it?  Is it sort of reverse bad luck like when a bird shits on your head, and whoever is with you snickers in that way that means he’s really smothering a hefty schadenfreude-laden guffaw, and says, “That brings good luck,” after which you feel like cracking open his idiotic head like a fortune cookie?

Like spitting in a really butch way, projectile vomiting is a talent, as demonstrated on "Little Britain."

A few yards up the road, the guy pulled into a driveway and was met by another pasty-faced junkie who handed him what I assumed were drugs, but handed them over just like that, cool as can be, not even bothering to hide the transaction from the two revolted homos tramping up the hill trying to get their cardio in and commenting on the houses and how they’d do things differently if only they could afford something more than their current respective shitholes (well, Tuttle’s is a considerably nicer shithole than mine).

Later Tuttle told me that Moby, who as I also mentioned in a previous post has bought a mini-castle on a peak in Hollywoodland called Wolf’s Lair, left his door open one night and awoke to find some druggie passed out in the front hall (or something like that, we’re trying to locate the story; stand by for verification).  Moby being Moby, having started his career playing at raves, allegedly just put a blanket over the kid, and the next morning he was gone.  This makes me feel better about the phone booth musician passed out on my Hollywood shithole’s stairwell this morning.  I should have put a blanket over him rather than kicking him in the ribs as I walked by.  But that’s why Moby’s a rich vegan and I’m a poor carnivore.

The gatehouse to Moby's new 8-bedroom faux French château at the entrance to Hollywoodland. Bastard.

A side view of Moby's new castle, Wolf's Lair. See, if I were him, I would pour boiling oil on junkies who tried to scale my walls and sleep in my foyer. But I'm not a vegan.

The Health Department came today for an inspection of my apartment as well as the  studio across the hall, which is being rented by the lead phone booth musician, a 19-year-old named Corey, who is much more the right demographic for this building than I am.

Let me backtrack a second to explain how I ended up here to begin with: a couple of better options fell through suddenly; I needed a place to move fast; I was staying around the corner at Tuttle’s; I saw this place listed on Craigslist, went to see it, met the handsome manager, was totally charmed, moved in the next day.  I felt so good about my producerly efficient handling of a mini housing crisis.  Two months later, psycho Susan Blais fired the manager, who was by now my drinking buddy and good friend, and now she’s after me, presumably because he was my drinking buddy and good friend.

So the lovely Persian woman from the Health Department showed up chatting on her iPhone with her grandmother, from what little Farsi I understand.  After she’d noted the shameful condition of my toilet, we went across the hall to the musicians’ phone booth and knocked on the door.  It was 2 p.m.  I’d warned Corey this was happening today, but I knew he’d fuck this up when I heard him still partying at 3 a.m., so I mustered my best parental knock in order to rouse someone in the phone booth to come and answer the door, which I accomplished with evidently more success than the stairway sleeper, who had been shut out of the room all day.  A musician I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before (they all look the same with that hair in front of the face) answered the door and I strode in with my best avuncular stride.

“COREY!!  HEALTH DEPARTMENT’S HERE!!”  I barked.  He was asleep in the master bedroom, better known in real estate argot as the walk-in closet.  I kid you not: Corey really was sleeping behind the sliding doors of the walk-in closet.  Adorable.

The reason I was so loud is I was getting my own back for being kept up last night.  Having been a 19-year-old artist into heavy Class A drugs myself, I know there is nothing better than being roused from a nice coma in a shag-carpeted closet following an all-night bender by your avuncular neighbor’s fog-horn voice announcing the presence of government inspectors.

This necessary unpleasantness — I need to prove to the court that this is indeed a shithole, ergo the call to the Health Department — was capped by a spat with the new manager of the building, a sanctimonious Born Again Christian who keeps saying, “Hey, man, I’m just doing my job,” which is the kind of statement that makes my eyes want to pop out of their sockets with the sheer force of steaming rage arising from pressure-cooked moral indignation.

I needed to get away, so I hopped on the bus and headed east, which is where I should have headed to begin with four months ago rather than moving into Susan Blais’s Trap for Runaway Suckers just because the building manager was handsome and charming.  For Christ’s sake, I’m a filmmaker, I should have seen the most obvious forewarning: the Greyhound Bus Station is two blocks away.  The bus stations in New York and Hollywood are a movie-of-the-week cliché.  This building is for kids who come to Hollywood/New York with their dreams stuffed in their guitar cases, who walk up the street, see the “For Rent” sign, think, Wow, this isn’t bad, and like Corey move in, only to find themselves out on their asses a few months later because of the bedbugs, or because they’ve fallen behind of the rent, or whatever, and Susan Blais has fucked them for their deposits, because what they didn’t realize is that this is really the gingerbread house from a Grimm’s fairy tale, which lures the young uns in so that the evil witch can bake them in a pie.  If they’re lucky, they escape and  follow the bread crumbs back down to the bus depot and home they go, lighter for the guitar they hocked to give their last penny to the Wicked Blais.

I was never meant to live in this place.  It was a total accident.  I shall never rent with my dick again.

So after being slathered with sanctimony by the building manager, I headed east to my friend Ricardo’s furniture store; I knew he would be trapped there and thus an unwitting victim to my need to mewl.  The whole notion of having to call the Health Department and fight back against this insane woman had given me indigestion, and I hadn’t even eaten.  Of course, as always on buses in LA, there was the ubiquitous schizophrenic talking to himself, a Bus Schizo.  He was quiet until we got to around Silverlake, and then the tirade began.

“SHALOM!” he yelled, which was a nice way to start seeing as it was Friday and it was almost sundown; this was a Jewish Bus Schizo.  After singing a little rhyming ditty, he launched into a diatribe on comparative religion for the benefit of the mostly Latino passengers, the gist of which was that all the “damned Catholics” on the bus should “go to hell because we Jews don’t believe in hell anyway, HAHAHAHA!”,  which actually made some perverse sense.  Unfortunately, his bellowing “SHALOM!” set off another one-eyed Bus Schizo in the handicapped seat behind the bus driver, who started whimpering to himself and rocking back and forth.  All I could think was, Where is John Galliano when you need him?  Imagine him in this scene all coked-up and boozy, personality splintering everywhere, collagened lips a-flapping with racist invectives, hurtling himself down the bus at some militant Jewish crackpot who is screaming, “SHALOM!  I’m meshugana!  Can’t you tell?  All you damned Catholics are going to hell!”  (He really said that.  I copied it verbatim on the notepad on my Blackberry.)

Ricardo’s new store (Freespace Modern, 1282 Sunset Boulevard) is in Angelino Heights sandwiched between Silverlake and Echo Park.  Or maybe it’s just after Echo Park.  I dunno.  It’s pre-hip and it’s over there, near downtown, where I should have moved in the first place, if I’d only taken my lazy ass a bit further than just a block away from Tuttle’s place.  Ricardo is selling his formidable collection of mid-century furniture and lamps at  insanely good prices compared to what others just down the road sell the same thing for.

FreeSpace Modern on Sunset Boulevard in Angelino Heights, the next Silverlake.

It was good I made that trip east today;  I needed a chilled, balancing Ricardo Diaz infusion.  I need a plan for whatever happens after my court date with the execrable Susan Blais next week, because whatever happens, I am out of here.  Going to East Hollywood is a good idea for the time being.  I’ll miss my stomps through the Hills with Tuttle and waving to Moby, but sometimes you gotta be a little Californian and follow the signs, you know what I mean, dood?  One minute you’re chilling in your shithole-slash-dorm room thinking about what to do, where to go after this, so you hop on a bus, listen to a rousing schizophrenic Jewish racist tirade, and the next thing you know, the road ahead is clear, lined with florescent yellow bricks.

Indeed, Hollywood: everything is for a reason.

3 Comments

Filed under Blog, Killough Chronicles

I, Monster

I check my look in the mirror
I wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face.
— Bruce Springsteen, Dancing in the Dark

The caption for this photo on the site I poached it from said, "Springsteen made it acceptable for men to wear bandanas around their heads." Bwahahahahahahahahahaha.

Ever since that song was first released, I have been puzzled.  I can understand Bruce changing his clothes and his hair; the Jersey Boy look can be sexy if you have an eye for what old school queens call “rough trade,” but it’s never stylish, and in the 80s the clothes and the hair from the Swamps Beyond The Bridge and Tunnels were almost as bad as they are now, as showcased on The Show That Cannot Be Mentioned on MTV.  But why would a man as handsome as Bruce Springsteen want to change his face?  After all, a man’s face is something that should not be changed by anything other than time.  For the fair sex, it’s as my former lover Daniel, the Giant Spanker of Celebrities, used to say: “Every vooman has a second face.  It’s called make-up.”

All I can think is that some irate ex-girlfriend of Spingsteen’s must have screamed the truth about his one facial imperfection during a heated smack-down Jersey-style breakup moment: “So you think you’re fuckin’ sexy, huh?  So does half the fuckin’ world!  But let me tell you something.  Do you have any fuckin’ idea how fuckin’ difficult it is to kiss a guy with an underbite?  Huh?  You practically have to hang upside down like a bat to do it properly.  And I’m sick of it!  I’m outta here!”  Which led Bruce to sit down and pen that song.  From then on, if he was going to dance, it would be in the dark so that no one could look at his underbite, which is a pity because it’s the key to his sexiness.

At the risk of being hauled up for cyber bullying with my relentless pursuit of Galliano, this post does pick up from the earlier pieces about him not just because of the work John has had done to his face, but because he’s got me thinking about my play Hatter and narcissism.  What makes anyone take a look in the mirror and not just want to change his clothes, his hair, his face, but take a scalpel to it and rearrange as much of it as he can afford?

A computer impression of what Michael Jackson would have looked like had he not had plastic surgery. I firmly believe that had he left well enough alone with his face, those traumatized boys wouldn't have sued.

Hatter is an extended riff on the Mad Tea Party, in which the Mad Hatter is now Matt Hatter, the Galliano/McQueen/Tom Ford rock-star fashion designer character, and Alice is a fashion journalist who has the goods on him.  One of the tropes I carry over from Alice in Wonderland is the looking glass, the mirror, how people perceive themselves.  The fashion designer, I state in the play, is the mirror that people hold up to themselves: he tells you how to dress, what you look better in, who you are going to be today.

I stumbled on the notion of the fashion designer-as-looking glass when I was writing the piece.  Actually, I stumbled on quite a few things when I was writing it, both intellectually and physically, but I’ll expound more about that when we get closer to production and I shed my inhibitions.  It wasn’t until I was living with a philosophy professor a couple of years later that I realized that this notion of the exterior world being a mirror of the self, in particular the libidinous self, is central to the teaching of modern French philosopher Jacques Lacan.  Basically, Lacan’s mirror stage, “typifies an essential libidinal relationship with the body image.”  I’ll leave it there and let you follow the Cliff Notes on Jacques Lacan via my Wikipedia links if you’re interested.  I need to keep this blog as light and fluffy as a Galliano tulle gown if I’m going to keep my readers, i.e., the fashion folk and the Amanda Seyfried breast-loving pervs, happy.

A fluffy Galliano-designed tulle gown. I just can't wrap my mind around how someone who can produce such beauty, and such vast quantities of such beauty, season after season, can reflect such ugliness.

Narcissism, as I discovered during an extended “spack out” I had in London over the fall/winter 2008-09 season, isn’t the same as having a dollop of normal vanity combined with healthy self-confidence.  The cause of said spack out, as the British call flipping out, was that I was taking the oncoming Recession personally.  It had to be my fault that everything was collapsing around me, only I was to blame that a trillion dollars of wealth had vanished, leaving the indie film business — never exactly a booming, flush industry to begin with — with nothing in the collective bank.  See, we rely on the discretionary capital of high-net-worth individuals to close most independent film deals, and suddenly there was nothing left, nothing was moving forward, and we were all tumbling towards nothingness.  In good ol’ Anglo-Australian-American fashion, I saw this as entirely my doing: my small overdraft at the bank had collapsed the world economy in a butterfly effect.  That had to be it because I was raised to believe that had to be it; all problems in our lives are our fault, aren’t they?  And the only possible explanation for this colossal, recession-causing fault of mine was that I had a major personality disorder.

So I hopped onto Our Lord Google, Omniscient God of Everything and Everything Else, and scoured directories on mental illness, the DSM IV, the WikiWonderWorks, you name it.  Then I found the cause of it all:  Narcissism Personality Disorder, a.k.a. NPD.  That was me.  It spoke to me, it rang true.  Years of running from the horrible truth were over.

But a blind test was in order.  I needed proof before I committed myself to an institution, and if not an institution then to intensive outpatient psychiatric care courtesy Her Majesty’s NHS.

I printed out a list of the symptoms without a heading or an explanation and handed them with great drama and flourish to the aforementioned philosophy professor, who shared my bed and knew me best.  “Read this, Jonathan.  And tell me who this reminds you of.”

Jonathan read.  “I dunno, who does it remind me of?”

“Me?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on.  You mean I don’t have even one of these characteristics?”

“Not really.  No.”

I was crushed.  I needed not one, but at least five to be considered an NPD.  But there was still hope: why should I believe the one person that I had purposely brought into my life to convince me I was sane and wonderful when I clearly wasn’t?  Just having Jonathan around was part of the pathology of my NPD.  Luckily, our friend Helen, a psychologist and social worker who spent her days “sectioning” people, which is the British equivalent of forcibly committing people to mental institutions, came over for a cup of tea and a “rollie.”  Helen is a great character: soothing alto voice, big Amy Winehouse black bouffant, fifties glasses, bright red lipstick.

“Go on, Jonathan, tell her,” I said.

“James thinks he’s a narcissist,” Jonathan said.

“And he doesn’t believe me,” I added.

“You’re not a narcissist, darling,” Helen said with calm authority while she finished rolling her cigarette.  “You’re just an American.”

In the end, Jonathan and Helen and Mayoclinic.com convinced me I didn’t have NPD nor any major personality disorder.  All I have is somewhat elevated levels of vanity by British standards, but relatively normal levels of it for an American.  And just because most hours of the day I tend to be preternaturally confident when many people around me aren’t, doesn’t make me a narcissist.

Damn.

True narcissists are delusional.  When I say that there are a lot of narcissists around here, it’s because Hollywood attracts people who really do have NPD.  It’s what makes this “Hollyweird.”  Like all completely or partially insane people, their inner Lacanian mirrors are cracked or warped, as I believe Galliano’s might be, even though it would be up to his shrink to diagnose him, not some blogist who caused him to be spanked one night seven years ago in Paris.

Having said all that, it’s time for me to admit I don’t really fancy myself the gay Hugh Hefner, as I’ve stated in earlier postings.  It just sounded sensational. I’m not even sure I like his baby oil regimen, which I was inspired to try after that NY Times article about him; I feel more leathery, not less.  Actually, I feel parchmenty.

George Clooney's neck wattle, which makes him the straight James Killough.

What I really delude myself as being is the gay George Clooney.  This is not just because both he and I are getting sexier as we get older; although, truth be told, anything is sexier than when I was a tall, lanky, out-of-shape youngster.  The main reason I am the gay Clooney is because we both have the same drooping wattle folds between our chins and necks.  I noticed his the other day while watching The American.  I am a bit younger than Clooney, so I just have one wattle, which is starting to come in like a wisdom tooth.  No doubt it will be joined by another soon, and I’ll be more like Clooney than ever.  They’ll be my wisdom wattles.

I don’t know if Clooney does anything to his face, if he botoxes or fills in wrinkles.  I don’t intend to, even though my sister thinks I should inject something in the accordion action happening around my neck.  Nah.  Just cover the mirrors, people, cos I’m going out like Eastwood, making movies and lookin’ like a Shar Pei puppy.

I shall leave you today not with a celebrity tit picture, we’ve moved on from those, but with a joke a young friend just shared with me via text.

Question: If Marilyn Monroe were alive right now, what would she be doing?

Answer: Clawing at her coffin.

Apparently that is from Chuck Palahniuk.

10 Comments

Filed under Blog, Killough Chronicles

Spanking Galliano

Seeing that I will never work with John Galliano, there’s no point in waiting until we get my play Hatter up and going in London later this year to tell my story about how I caused him to be spanked.

"Springtime For Hitler in Gay Paree!" As a German woman who threw the weight of her fame against Hitler, Marlene Dietrich must be turning in her grave knowing she inspired this cretin.

For those of you just catching up with this blog, Hatter the play is based on a screenplay of mine, about which one of Galliano’s own people, who I imagine is no longer one of his people, once said, “is the only script ever written that is truly about the fashion business.”

When Hatter was still a film, I approached Galliano to design the costumes via the aforementioned colleague of his.  We sent the script off to Paris, but despite the strength of our personal connections, I didn’t hear back from him for months.  That’s okay, screenplays aren’t easy to read, and someone like Galliano has a lot on his plate.  Finally it was decided that the best strategy would be for me to go to Paris for the January 2004 couture collections, attend his show and then worm-charm my way into getting him to attach himself to the project.

At the time I was dating a German kid I’d met online, a young tattooist from Aachen near Cologne.  We’d had this virtual romance for about four months before we actually met in person.  This was before web cams, so all I had was pictures of him and lots of phone calls.  Sometimes virtual love can seem so much more profound than the real thing, and that was certainly true in this case for me, even though I still have the deepest affection for this guy.  When I finally did meet him on a side trip I took to Aachen — quaint medieval city, Charlemagne’s old capital — he was neither 6’2”, as he had described himself online, nor was he twenty-five; he was 6’5″ and twenty-one.  He was also a bit heavier, but still quite good-looking, and above all very smart, which is something you can’t hide even online.

I rented an apartment on the Île Saint-Louis for nine days over the couture shows and the men’s collection; Galliano was to premiere his own label of men’s clothes that season.  The German kid was to meet me there.

The île Saint-Louis, the oldest part of Paris, an island in the middle of the Seine. Like living in a postcard, even in the dead of January.

The day before I boarded the train, I got a letter from Galliano stating that he wouldn’t be doing the project because, among other things, he had his own film aspirations over which he wanted complete creative control.  Fair enough.  In 2004, Galliano was arguably the greatest living fashion designer.  At least he’d considered my work.

I went to Paris anyway.  I’d already paid for the ticket and the apartment, and there was still a small spark of hope that I could convince Galliano to change his mind.  And if not, I’d have a romantic week nestled in a super charming garret apartment on the Île Saint-Louis with a handsome 21-year-old, with passes to the men’s collections and some of the couture shows.  Life is tough.

I want to change the German kid’s name to Dieter, but I can see him wrinkling his nose at that.  Gunther?  Nah, too Wagnerian.  Let’s just call him by his real name.  If nothing else, Daniel was very cool, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me telling this story.

The day of the Dior couture show was dreary, as Januarys are wont to be most places in the northern hemisphere.   It was not one of Galliano’s best; it was just too theatrical, and I was a huge admirer of his theatricality, so this is saying a lot.  But it retrospect, it looks wicked in pictures:

It wasn't easy being Cleopatra, clearly. Some of the frocks from the Dior Couture 2004 collection, designed by John Galliano.

If you can’t tell, the theme of the show was Ancient Egypt, and the clothes were unwearable even on the runway; you could see beads popping off the dresses and bouncing all over the catwalk.  After five minutes, I could have cared less about the clothes; I was holding my breath in case one of the girls skidded on a bead and broke her neck with one of those headpieces.  The girls, already skin-and-bones crypto-zombies without help from these “gowns” (although I’m not sure properly speaking they were that), looked appropriately mummified, and strutted like the walking dead.  The real stars of the show  were the accessories, the hair and the astounding make-up by Pat McGrath.  Daniel and I went backstage briefly before the show and saw Pat touching up the late Isabella Blow’s lips.  Issie was sporting something that looked like a large lick of bacon on her head.

Afterwards, a couple of members of his entourage, who were responsible for my being there in the first place and were trying to get John attached to the project, invited us for drinks at the bar of the Plaza Athénée Hotel with Galliano and everyone involved with his team and the show.

Le Bar at the Plaza Athénée Hotel in Paris

Once we got there, Daniel and I decided that the best strategy to seduce John into reconsidering the costumes for Hatter was for me to take a back seat and do what I do best, which is to drink expensive cocktails and try to make small talk with Galliano’s Irish PR gal, who was stuck in some kind of conversational loop about how wonderful it was to work for John and how it had changed her life.  That’s all she talked about.  I think she must have been on junkets all day and her mind was stuck in press release mode.  But I had to humor her.  It was this woman, you see, who would help make the decision for John to participate in the film.  When a fashion designer does costumes for a movie, it is often considered product placement, especially in a film like Hatter, which features clothes so prominently and is, well, about a hedonistic fashion designer who makes Keith Richards look like Mary Poppins.  Not too far from Galliano himself, even though I had no idea about that when I wrote it.

While I was schmoozing PR Chick, Daniel was in charge of buttering up John, and dutifully made a bee-line for him when we reached the Galliano group’s area of the bar.

It was clear everyone was doing coke.  It certainly didn’t bother me.  I wasn’t doing it, and nor was Daniel; he was an epileptic.  No sense being all coked-up if your lover can’t be.

At a certain point, half the group disappeared downstairs.  Daniel was with them.  I could see he was doing his job perfectly and enjoying it.  He had long been a fan of Galliano’s, so to be out partying with him after the show, which Daniel thought was genius, was definitely something he could write about extensively in his beloved journal the next day.

At a certain point, the group began to drift back, minus Daniel and John.  One of our friends sat beside me and said, “Listen, James.  I don’t want to make a stink or anything, but we really like you and Daniel.  You should know that he’s in the bathroom alone with John doing cocaine.”

I chuckled and told my friend not to worry, that Daniel barely drank, and would never risk having a grand mal seizure in Paris’s chicest bar in front of the world’s greatest fashion designer just for a line of coke.  Plus, for God’s sake, Galliano is a little thing.  Daniel is six-foot-five and a strapping lad.  Literally.  (I just can’t help the puns, sorry.)

A few minutes later, Daniel and John came back up and joined us again.  Daniel had been stuck to Galliano all evening trying to accomplish his mission.  Now he sat next to me and wrapped himself around me like an affectionate anaconda.  John stared daggers at me, his mouth grinding from the recent cocaine dosing like a kamikaze pilot on meth.  Who knows, maybe he was picturing me as a Jew and was carving a swastika in my forehead.  (I do consider myself an honorary Jew; I was born in New York City at Beth Israel hospital into a Jewish obstetrician’s hands.  This is a self-conferred honorific, however; no one from the Tribe has ever offered it to me officially.)  At any rate, I didn’t mind at that moment that John might be upset with either me or Daniel.  I was drunk, and it was pretty obvious the costuming deal would never happen.  There was always Alexander McQueen.

“Let’s get out of here,” Daniel hissed in my ear.  So we left and went to the grand lobby of the hotel to get away from the smoke of the bar.  Then Daniel told me what had happened.

The group had gone downstairs to a private bathroom, which apparently was some sort of suite in itself in order to accommodate a half-dozen or so people.  Lines were laid out, lines were snorted.  Then Galliano told everyone to leave him and Daniel alone.

A bathroom in the Plaza Athénée. When Daniel was stuck in Galliano's den, it wasn't this bathroom exactly, but it was probably much like this.

“He vanted to have sex viz me,” Daniel said.

“And what did you say?”

“I say, ‘Take off all your clothes.’”  Apparently John complied, and stripped to his jockstrap, which is really uncanny because the title character in Hatter spends much of the first part of the play in a jockstrap (as a result, it hasn’t been easy casting the role with a suitable star who is willing to do that).  Life was already imitating art.

Daniel went on.  “Then I say to him, ‘Get on your knees.’  Und he get on his knees und he say, ‘[words redacted — too raunchy]’.  So I say to him, ‘Vat makes you sink I vould ever have sex in a toilet?’”

Let me break here to point out to you what a good boy Daniel was.  Despite being a young giant tattoo artist, he had boundaries.  He did not feel it appropriate to have sex in a toilet with a famous stranger, no matter how opulent the toilet.  In John’s defense, most gay men, including yours truly, wouldn’t think twice about having sex in a toilet like that, provided we could keep the soap and shampoo as souvenirs.  I think most straight people I know wouldn’t, either.

“So then,” Daniel said,  “I make him stand up und I turn him und I push him against the vall.  Galliano say, ‘[words redacted — too raunchy].’  So I do like he ask, und I smacked his ass — once, twice, three times really hard und I say, ‘That is for not doing my boyfriend’s film!’”

God bless you, Daniel, wherever you are.  That was true genius.

What's next for John Galliano? Maybe he can just keep having more plastic surgery and hit the art scene in New York, hang with Jocelyn Wildenstein. There are a few Jews in New York, though. He might want to think about Moscow?

What John Galliano said the other night in Paris wasn’t at all funny.  We have all gotten very drunk before and said and done things that we regret.  I have drunk entire breweries in my life, done enough drugs to support villages in Afghanistan and keep chemical labs in Mexico in business.  But I have never behaved like that.

I am by no means a militant homo, but I mean the following sincerely:

John, it pays to remember that as gay people, we are still persecuted and are victims of extreme prejudice around the world.  It is still considered okay to beat us to death in Uganda, or even right here in the United States.  Gay teens in love are lynched in Iran.  Your beloved Hitler not only gassed thousands of gay men, but it was better to have worn a yellow star in the camps than a pink triangle; you were treated better as a Jew, and that is fucking scary.

There is no excuse for what you did.  You will always have your genius, you will always be a master, you will no doubt never go hungry because of this.  I’m sure nobody in the world regrets what has happened more than you, now that you have sobered up and are facing the shit storm that must be raining down on you.  Maybe this is what will shake you out of that sloppy drunk, jaw-grinding witchery-bitchery you tend to get into once and for all.

Still, shame on you, John.

22 Comments

Filed under Blog, Killough Chronicles

Go Out There and Be Funny

Today we have the post-mortem of the Oscars, which is only interesting to the kind of people who still read the newspaper in paper form, and to people like me who are left baffled, and require some sort of grief counseling.  Truth be known, I’ve only ever been completely satisfied with an Oscar ceremony once, and that was the year The Last Emperor won.  I was just smitten with that film.  I was lucky to be a magazine editor at the time, so I booked myself and my friends into countless screenings of the film, and championed it ardently wherever I could.  Clearly I identified with the poor, misunderstood boy emperor who floated around a gilded cage swathed in silk to a score by Ryuichi Sakamoto, lit by Vittorio Storaro.

James Franco butching it up in an impression of Marilyn Monroe that really wasn't as funny as Anne Hathaway pretended. The fact he played it like a frat bro in drag was disappointing.

So let’s analyze the analysis of last night’s ceremony by the grown ups of news, the New York Times.  Alessandra Stanley says that the”The producers cast the young stars James Franco and Anne Hathaway as hosts, then kept the writing old and hoary,” which sounded like a personal comment directed at me and my love life.  Franco and Hathaway were almost show-stoppingly nervous and downright bad right at the beginning just after that brilliant Inception mash-up video they did with Alec Baldwin and Nelson Mandela.  That video was the highlight of the evening, along with the Bob Hope hologram with portions of an old broadcast, which as the NY Times pointed out, underscored just how lame the writing for last night’s show really was.  I do not agree that Kirk Douglas merely “did his best,” as the Times says; it’s the first time in my life I actually liked the guy.

This is the James Franco in drag we know and love, for the cover of trannie magazine Candy, photo by Terry Richardson.

The big upset was David Fincher’s loss.  I couldn’t help but hear the words of a director friend of mine, “Harvey Weinstein is truly evil.”  Indeed, after what happened last night, with a decent but insipid film like King’s Speech upsetting the far more accomplished Social Network, one can only think that Harvey has pulled off the ultimate impossible financing deal and re-mortgaged his soul to the devil.  And this is just when I’d thought the devil had had enough of Harvey and had moved on to my landlady Susan Blais.

Bringing this all back to to the subject of me, watching Franco and Hathaway clash like oil over water – he basically flipped the finger to the Academy with his attitude, treating them to what his generation really thinks about this crap, while she ran off in the opposite direction and sucked up to the establishment — reminded me of the one time I have ever experienced a large-scale televised awards thing like this, which was when I hosted the Miss India Pageant in 1993.  As I like to say, it is something every American should do once in his lifetime.

The reason I was cast as the host is ridiculous in the first place.  A friend of mine was co-producing it, and as this was the first time India was televising the event, they wanted it to look as professional as possible, which meant having an American white man do it.  This was at a time when India was still reinventing herself and feeling insecure about being Indian, so hiding behind an American — a native New Yorker, no less, who was spoon-fed bravado from when he could barely stand in his crib — seemed like a good idea.  In principle.  I had begun my film career in India, see, and had lingered for long enough to start to speak Hindi, which meant I could pronounce the names with some degree of accuracy (linguistically speaking, Hindi has some tricky consonant groupings, and if you aren’t spoon-fed them in your crib, they are very difficult to pronounce).

The producers’ biggest mistake was thinking that, because they thought I looked like David Letterman, I would be funny.  This was typical racial profiling as practiced by non-whites: they think we all look alike.  No white person would every mistake me for Letterman, especially a white comedian.  Just because I liked to lounge around Mumbai on a Rajasthani divan high on opium and ganja, shredding my world with acerbic alacrity didn’t mean I was ready for the level of impromptu comedy that would soon be required of me, in front of over a billion people across Asia, from the Middle East to Hong Kong.

Four days before rehearsals were meant to begin for the pageant, thirteen bombs exploded in different places Mumbai, a mini-9/11.

The Mumbai Stock Exchange after the March, 1993 blasts

One of the targets was the Centaur Hotel, a well-intentionally designed structure that looks like the prow of a beached ocean liner in Juhu, which fortuitously rhymes with Malibu because that’s sort of what it is in relation to the rest of Mumbai geographically; i.e., it’s up the coast from the main city and is a well-to-do enclave. The comparisons stop right there, though.  This is India, so Juhu is plenty funky, and at the time the Centaur Hotel was a complete shithole, albeit classified as a 5-star shithole by the Indian government because, of course, it was run by the Indian government.  I say was a complete shithole because I noticed in Slumdog Millionaire that it was closed for business and being renovated; it’s that abandoned hotel the heroes hide out in for a while.  I’m glad it has (hopefully) been brought up to it’s potential; I always thought that architecturally it was a great concept.

The Miss India pageant was supposed to take place in the bombed-out Centaur, so naturally I assumed that the show would be cancelled or at the very least postponed.  Not at all.  There are a handful of countries that take their pageants very seriously; in places like India, Venezuela and Puerto Rico, it is like the women’s World Series.  The show would go on, even though most of the entire ground floor of the hotel was blasted out.  Not to be outshone, I decided on going, what the hell, it’s a lark, so I packed my bravado, copped some Xanax for those post-large-scale-terrorism-attack willies combined with stage fright (we all know those), and hopped on a plane from Delhi to Mumbai for rehearsals.

When I got there, I noticed they were constructing this massive runway down the middle of the Olympic-sized pool in the center of the hotel right down to the beach.  I could see them building it from my room on the top floor of the hotel.  It was in the shape of a Byzantine double crucifix.  I came to think of that as symbolic over the upcoming days.

The inner courtyard of the Centaur Juhu Hotel, showing my pool of doom, over which the catwalk was built. My room was on the top floor, center, right hand side. The entire ground floor was blackened from the blast that had ripped through the hotel shortly before we started rehearsals.

Just after I checked in, I was sitting in my room catching up with a friend of mine, Milind Soman, a male model turned actor, with whom I had shared another adventure a few years earlier, during which he proved himself to be one of the few real stand-up guys I have ever met in my life.  New Yorkers would call him a mensch.  While we were catching up, the phone rang.

“Is this James Killough?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a bomb under your bed,” said the caller, clearly not the hospitality desk welcoming me to the hotel and making sure everything was all right.  Now, you would think given what had just happened across Mumbai that I would get up and bolt from the room.  But for some reason, maybe trying to impress mensch-of-mensches Milind sitting opposite me, I just looked under the bed and replied, “No, there isn’t.”

“Then you are a target the night of the performance,” said the caller, and hanged up.

Milind Soman, whom I sadly haven't seen in a donkey's age, but I'm pleased to see he's now the spokesman for Just For Men, which I use on my beard, but I would use on my hair if I had enough.

Much as I would have liked to ignore the call, the sensible thing to do was to tell the producers, given that this was a climate akin to post-9/11 New York.  The whole production was instantly put under lockdown, and we weren’t allowed to go outside hotel for any reason.  And we were three days or so away from the main performance.  I was assured there would now be elite force snipers covering me from the roof and a Black Cat commando embedded every fifth person in the sizable audience for good measure.  Great.  Suddenly I felt like was really the host of the Miss Israel Pageant taking place on the Gaza Strip.

Indians are nothing if not expert reassurers.  It’s that sway of the head, the “no problem, don’t worry,” their charm.  You buy it every time no matter how long you’ve lived there, no matter how well you speak the language.  Why?  Because they themselves buy it.

I was promised a rehearsal, but didn’t get one the entire three or four days leading up to the performance, during which I basically twiddled my thumbs in my room.  I was this afterthought who was somehow going to wing it with a script I had written.  I was invincible, I didn’t need what mere mortal performers needed,  because I was David Letterman. Everyone else scurried around, the girls going off to swimsuit contests and shopping sprees and congeniality competitions and other Miss Country things, while the crew frantically tried to prepare for an event they had never staged this on this level before.  Again, this was the first time the Miss India Pageant was to be televised.

In case you didn't get the point, I shall belabor it. Another scene from the Mumbai blasts shortly before the Miss India pageant.

As my crucifix runway was being built, the backdrop went up as well.  It turned out to be an enormous peacock, from which I was to emerge at the beginning of the show and make my way down this sweeping staircase.  Just like Liberace.

Ugh.  I was pre-embarrassed for myself.   The Xanax stopped working.  Rudderless, rehearsal-less, increasingly nervous, I snuck out of the hotel to the house of one of the pageant judges next door, an actress with whom I had worked on the first film I ever wrote, which had brought me to India in the first place.  The judge wasn’t there, but her willfully insouciant sister was.

“What are you worried about?” the sister said breezily, as if being forced to perform for two hours in front of a billion people across Asia (in rerun) without a rehearsal, with snipers on the roof, commandos in the audience, K-9 bomb squad dogs behind stage and around it — a stage crowned by a peacock I would emerge from like some burlesque fan dancer, no less — when you have never done anything remotely like this in your life, and you only got the gig because of erroneous racial profiling, weren’t enough to justify a wee case of the jitters.  “The contest is rigged anyway,” she yawned. “Everyone knows that.  Just relax.”

Oh, great.  Thanks, friend’s sister.  Now I have to be the spokesperson for petty pageant corruption on top of everything else.

I am not a quiet, retiring type.  If something bothers me, I’m gonna let you know.  And I was getting pissed as hell.  Still, I was lulled into the usual reassurance with the swaying heads, and lots of “What rubbish!  Of course it’s not rigged!”  As proof, there was going to be a terminal in my podium that would be linked directly to the judges and their voting tabulation.  Furthermore, this terminal would act as a sort of teleprompter for my script.  My friend’s sister had to be wrong.

Indian Army Black Cat Commandos bouncing around. Yes, I willingly put my life in their hands, all in the name of beauty pageant.

I’ll never know what happened in the hour leading up to the performance to cause the mysterious malfunction of the judge’s voting tabulation system linked to the terminal in my podium, which likewise didn’t work.  Maybe the judges rebelled against the rigging and couldn’t be trusted to vote the right way.  Given what happened at the end of the performance, I would like to imagine that something like that happened, that my friends and colleagues had had a crisis of conscience, as I still have.  I’ve never spoken to them about it because I fled in such a hurry and returned to Bombay only years later.

Just before the performance began and my name was announced, before I emerged from the embarrassingly camp peacock, with snipers overhead, a throng of models and contestants backstage, and nausea in my stomach, I said to the stage manager, whom I shall call Deepak to protect the complicit, “How the fuck am I supposed to do this reading from a script I haven’t rehearsed?”

“Don’t worry,” he said.  “Just go out there and be funny.”

The 1993 Miss India Pageant wasn’t just rigged in a subtle way, it was a full-blown 18-sail-ship rigging in plain view of everyone in the audience, the contestants, judges, and me, its spokesperson.  The show wasn’t broadcast live, but it was still difficult to mask what happened in the final edit that was shown to over a billion people across Asia, in rerun.

The first hiccup occurred towards the last third.  There was something strange going on in the manual relay of information between the judges and me, which lead me to accidentally read out the real semi-finalists they had actually voted for, not what the producers wanted, which meant that one of the girls, who would of course go on to win second place, was accidentally eliminated.  We had to go back and redo that portion of the show, and eliminate the girl who was supposed to have won, whose name I had already read out, who had mistakenly celebrated a victory that was likely hers to begin with.

In the heat of the moment, I still had time to muster moral indignation — the unfairly eliminated girls, who like me had refused to believe the rumors of rigging, were sobbing backstage — and turned to Deepak when I was offstage for a moment in the wings, “It’s rigged!”

“So what,” he replied with a shrug.  “You’re doing a great job.  Keep going.”

Despite everything, I suppose I had managed to locate my inner David Letterman and was actually managing to be humorous.  No longer.  I wasn’t amused and was seriously contemplating walking off.

Just before the end, I was given a note in handwriting I recognized, James, Please read these names out, and it was signed, the Judges. And the names of three girls who should have won were there, not the names of the three who ended up with crowns on their heads.  Had I read the real winners out, they would simply have made me go back and redo it, and I was tired of this shit.  What had started out as a fun lark had turned into yet another Mumbai nightmare.

Namrata Shirodkar, the woman crowned as Miss India, but who probably wasn't the real winner.

Now, maybe this was an elaborate set-up, we will never know.  Maybe that wasn’t really a note from the judges, but like I said, I had worked with two of them for a long time, and knew a few of the others.  And I had been warned by almost everyone that the show was going to be rigged and that the girl who was crowned, Namrata Shirodkar, was going to win it, which I just refused to believe possible.

I left that note on the podium, along with the microphone I threw down in disgust once the lights cut and the cameras were off.  On my way out, I said to Deepak, “I’m not going to say anything about this, but I want cash, and you can pay the taxes,” and left on the 1 a.m. Air India flight back to Delhi.  They did pay me a month later over a Thai meal in Delhi, in cash, literally under the table.  I hope they paid the taxes.  After all, the organizers and producers of the event were none other than the venerable Times of India.

Well, after telling that story, I’m not sure it’s appropriate to insert my signature picture of Amanda Seyfried’s breast.  So I’ll leave you with a more chaste picture of her having an orgasm instead:

Amanda Seyfried having an orgasm while looking at her lesbian lover's shoes in "Chloe." (Oh come, all ye pervy keyword searchers! Join me!) This orgasm is distinct from the one enjoyed by Julianne Moore in an earlier scene, when Julianne was being fingered by Amanda. In this one, Amanda is having sex with Julianne's character's teenaged son. The film is kinda filthy if you think about it, not when you watch it, though.

And the video below isn’t funny at all.  I take back what I said about John Galliano having been provoked in my blog a couple of days ago. I apologize for it, and it certainly doesn’t look like anyone from my crew is going to be offering him work soon, even if he were inclined to do it.  I take Galliano’s passing on doing the costumes for Hatter a few years ago at its word and cease and desist from further endeavor to convince him otherwise.

“Bonjour, Jean-Paul?  It’s me, James …”

6 Comments

Filed under Blog, Killough Chronicles, The India Files

A Man Snogging A Girl’s Breast

The title of this post comes from a search term that showed up on my WordPress Dashboard, which as I mentioned in yesterday’s post I am addicted to for the time being.  Some British titty-phile wanted to see a man macking on a girl’s boob, and found my blog. All I can say is, bless the very horny, for they perpetuate the race.

I should just rename this entire blogsite Filthy and Filthier and drop the Pure Film Creative pretense.  I am clearly no longer concerned with attracting clients who are going to pay me vast sums to jazz up their content, which is typically cavalier and short-sighted of me.  It seems I would rather sit here cackling like Liberace on E while I tinkle out mildly offensive caustic badinage that is entirely inappropriate as a writing sample.  Oh, well.

Can you believe this man ever existed? Not only that, but led a double life as Elton John? These are the kinds of aliens who brand gays as "flaming." I am glad that Soderbergh is doing the bio-pic. Not so glad Michael Douglas is playing the lead because he's a bit of a dick who chews with his mouth open, although he seems to have changed his spots since the cancer scare.

Every decade or so, a sentence leaps out at me in some random article I am reading that changes my life.  I like to think of this as a manifestation of my personal karmic wheels grinding and showing me The Way, albeit an M.C. Escher-esque way; my life is nothing but karmic wheel cogs twisting impossibly on each other, with medieval men in tights and hoodies marching up and down stairs that seem interconnected but are really just illusions.

A case in point was an article in People magazine way back in 1986 that described the tragic death of Olivia Channon, a Guinness cousin.  She ODed on heroin and too many cocktails called “Heaven Can Wait” in Gottfried von Bismarck’s dorm room at Oxford.  People described the cocktail as a mixture in equal portions of vodka, champagne and orange juice.  I immediately went out and tried this elixir, and it worked: it was the pre-Red Bull buzzy-fun cocktail that got you raucously drunk as opposed to woozy drunk.  I think it  must have been the massive sugar rush of orange juice and champagne combined with the alcohol.  I drank Heaven Can Waits until the budget ran out, and then drank them again when the budget came back.  I’ve always thought it was the best use for champagne, no matter how expensive the brand.

Count von Bismarck, in whose bed my cocktail muse Olivia Channon died, fully clothed because apparently she just passed out there; Gottfried was a homo. More precisely, he was described in his own recent obit as "a pleasure-seeking heroin addict, hell-raising alcoholic, flamboyant waster and a reckless and extravagant host of homosexual orgies." Man after my own heart. It appears that 24 years after Olivia kicked the bucket in his bed, he ODed on heroin, too. See the things you find out when you Google Image?

More or less the same epiphany thing happened the other day when I read the New York Times article about Hugh Hefner.  So inspiring.  Apparently, he has kept his skin so soft and youthful by slathering it with baby oil.  It is said by his concubines that he glows in the dark as a result.  My life changed at that moment.  Heaven could wait no longer.  I needed to become a baby oil man just like Hef.

Even though I fancy myself the gay Hugh Hefner, I don't want that chair. The chick can stay if she's really funny.

Los Angeles is basically an artificially irrigated  desert.  Much as I admire Clint Eastwood and, like many middle-aged still-hopefuls, aspire to his late-life career, I don’t want my skin to look like a dusty vintage stuffed armadillo sitting in the back of an antiques store in Midland, Texas.  Nor do I have the finances that Madonna has to embalm myself every night in super-refined petroleum byproducts like an Ancient Egyptian Queen rehearsing for the hereafter.  So baby oil it has become, once in the morning, once before bed.  Tiny amounts of it, of course; I don’t want to seem too greasy.  But I have already started glowing.  By the time I am ready for my nieces to change my Depends, a prospect I love to tease them with, I intend to have become the infant Pitt in the first scenes of “Benjamin Button.”

Speaking of aging eccentrics, the world of fashion is aflame and agog for the first time since McQueen’s suicide with the news of John Galliano’s suspension from the House of Dior.  He got into some smack-down spat in a café in the Marais, Paris.  They called him ugly, he called them Jews or Asians, or maybe he was so drunk he mistook Asians for Jews, nobody is sure which.  I’ve only met the man briefly, but we were both very drunk, so it seems incredible to me that he wasn’t massively provoked.  At the risk of sounding like a complete nancy, no matter what John looks like on the outside, there is nothing ugly about a man who produces such breathtaking beauty.

The feral rake-hell John Galliano holding a lethal weapon.

If and when Hatter gets going again as a play next season in London, I will go back to John to ask him to design the costumes.  When it was a film with me directing, he turned me down on the grounds he wanted creative control.  We still met in Paris at the couture shows in 2003 (yes, we’ve been in development with Hatter that long) and had the aforementioned very funny, very inebriated evening together.  Or I thought it was funny; I’ve been dining out on the story ever since.  It involves a six-foot-five, 21-year-old German kid and some spanking.  If he and I don’t work together, which is likely, I’ll blog the story at a later date, again in conjunction with the production of Hatter. So be warned, John: either do the costumes or I’m spilling the beans. [Fuck that shit.  I take all of that back.  I hope I’ve made up for it in this post.]

Now that I’ve peppered this blog with ramblings about eccentric old queens, let me stop calling the kettle African-American and jump into the fray with my own pic, which will get added to Google Image searches of me:

This picture was taken of me, James Killough (need to put the name in for Google bots) three years ago by fashion blogger Pippa Brooks from Madame Says. Note that even blurry you can see my skin is heading for stuffed armadillo in Midland, Texas. And this was three years ago. The benefit of slathering myself with baby oil is not just that I'll look and smell like Hugh Hefner when I'm 85, but when you take a picture of me in a crowded, smoky pub like this again, the flash will reflect so intensely off my shiny head that my face will appear blasted out.

And a big shout-out (Christ, I hate that expression) to my new buddy Old Ancestor, who has left a couple of lust-riddled comments to the right of this column.  Because this particular blog ended up kind of homo sordidus, I thought I’d straighten things up a bit by taking a screen shot of Amanda Seyfried’s “side boob,” as Peter from Family Guy calls it.  Here you go, Old Ancestor buddy.  My regards to your wife:

Amanda Seyfried's breasts have become my entire raison d'être on WordPress. I need to collect every pixel I can that showcases those lovely billies, until this blog rivals Huffington Post. "Killough sells blog based on Seyfried breast for $350 million." Yes!

3 Comments

Filed under Blog, Killough Chronicles

What Doesn’t Kill you

I know, I’ve been crapping on a lot lately about facing adversity.  But it was only at the gym today, while I was willfully straining my muscles and inflicting measured pain to my body, that I thought how true the saying “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” really is.  To paraphrase a friend of mine, Lucky Diamond Rich, the world’s most tattooed man, who is in some places tattooed eight layers deep, the needles and the piercings and the body modification that he has put himself through are nothing compared to the pain he feels when dealing with himself inwardly.

My buddy Lucky Diamond Rich, Guinness World Record holder as the world's most tattooed man. I am planning to make a documentary about him one day, take him to India to learn the tricks of the fakirs and follow him around. Not an inch of his skin is bare of ink. His teeth are silver. He's blue, so when he wears his favorite bright orange Vivienne Westwood suit it's a real trip.

So why is it that I am so keen to put myself through the daily, pleasurable ordeal of weight training and intensive cardio, all in the name of strengthening my body and of trying to fight the gravitational pull of my aging flesh toward the center of the earth, but when it comes to psychic pain — and here I use the word “psychic” as a synonym for mental, not in the Hungarian-gypsy-reading-your-palm sense — I am such a whimpering pussy bitch?  It’s always been true: what hasn’t killed me has made me increasingly stronger.  So as I was powering-setting the shoulder press this afternoon until my muscles seared and I could lift no more, I thought, I should embrace this circumstantial adversity and welcome it rather than dread it and cower away. Even since I was a kid I’ve wanted to be a powerful, leathery, wise old man.  When other kids identified with Frodo or Legolas, I was always Gandalf.  Now is my chance.  So from here on in I am going to embrace this adversity shit head-on, understanding that the added bonus of strengthening my psychic endurance by treating my misery as a relentless Psycho Circuit class is I don’t have to pay $50 dollars a month to a gym, unlimited tanning included.

Speaking of mental anguish, rumor has it that my landlady, the (in my opinion) nefarious Susan Blais, is in fact bipolar, which explains a lot.  I suppose I should be kinder to her in this case, but mental illness doesn’t excuse evil behavior: Hilter was nuttier than Whole Foods Trail Mix; Muammar Gaddafi, the great evil of our times that we have swept under the carpet for FORTY YEARS , even dresses like a ‘sixties black poetess from outer space, complete with muumuu, matching turban and diamanté designer sunglasses.  The bipolar/manic depression makes sense: when Susan showed up at my door one night followed by a young Asian dude holding a stick, the first thing I noticed was how she reeked.  I believe that you can smell depression on some people; I don’t know if it’s a hygiene thing or a secretion thing, but it can be this rancid, hamster-cage odor.  Susan was masking it with some equally noxious perfume, which gave her personal pong the overall effect of some effluent byproduct oozing from a Libyan petroleum refinery.

Still furious about his exclusion from the seminal documentary on black drag queens,"Paris Is Burning," Mama Gaddafi from the House of Gaddafi vogues Pan-Arab Tyrant Realism while Our Fearful Leader tries not to giggle, lest Miss Thing bomb a United jumbo this time, now that Pan Am has gone out of business.

I’ve long thought that the solution to Susan’s alarming turnover in staff (this is the third building manager she’s had in a year, in this building alone) as well as tenants (very few stay beyond the term of their lease, which she insists on being a year long, unlike other buildings in LA, which offer a six-month option; she intends to fuck you on your security if you buckle and leave earlier, which you will), is for her to turn over her extensive property portfolio to a decent management company.  But methinks the nutty old stinky witch rather enjoys her own private auto da fé.  She seems to be finding more luck with Born Again Christian building managers, who presumably believe that forbearance towards impossible people will earn them points in heaven.  For those of us who don’t believe in heaven, but definitely in an eye for an eye, we’ll see the bitch in court.

According to the WordPress.com dashboard on my blog, I get many more searches and hits if I mention Amanda Seyfriend’s breasts, like I did in an earlier post. Here, boys, let me link you to an image of them.  They are rumored to be not real … I know, big shock there, but I had managed to suspend disbelief during the film.  Or was it that I nodded off?

5 Comments

Filed under Blog