Category Archives: Uncategorized

Dude Looks Like a Lady… in Haute Couture.

TUTTLE MODE | THE COLLECTIONS

by James Tuttle @TuttleMode

Gentle reader,

I’m glad you’re joining us.  It means that your eyes didn’t drop out of your head after witnessing the forty-eight hours of glittery fabulousness of the RuPaul’s Drag Race marathon over the weekend.  In anticipation of the show’s fourth season premiere, we got more sequins, wigs, feathers and size-fourteen hooker heels than we’ll ever need to see again.  Ever.

Jay Byers ain't no drag. (Photo: Rick Day)

Among the new crop of queens that we got to meet on Monday night there were some familiar archetypes like the bitchy, scarcastic Willam and the black divas Milan and Alisa Summers.  We also have the comic plus-sized Jiggly Caliente, the broke down Dida Ritz, and a couple of Puerto Ricans are always cast because they’re kind of crazy and have funny accents.  But what the fuck is up with these lame drag names?  Some of my dearest friends are quite famous female impersonators with wonderfully creative monikers like Holly Woodlawn and Bridget of Madison County.  The only cool name out of this bunch belongs to Sharon Needles but it seems a little too close to home for the rough whack-job that owns it, so I can’t really get on board.

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A Little Madness in the Spring

THE WEEK FROM MY VIEW

by James Killough

It was heartening to see that so many Americans haunting my sector of the Innernet—i.e., politics, foreign affairs, entertainment and Manhunt.net—were so accepting and philosophical about the apparent Islamist victory in Egypt this week.  They seemed to understand how hypocritical it is for a nation like ours—which until 2008 had an evangelical Christian president who followed God’s direct spoken commands, and which unilaterally supports the essentially fundamentalist Jewish state of Israel—to get up in arms if the Muslim Brotherhood forms a government in Cairo.

Screamin'-at-ya gay and borderline cheesy, Muto Manifesto is still beautifully shot and laid out. The text is pretentious, but it's French, so never mind. Click on the image for more.

This was a something of an unexpected outcome in Egypt; the Arab Spring was fueled and fanned by leftist, secular factions, not by the Egyptian equivalent of our own Nation of Islam.  But ain’t that always the case: the lefties do all the work, and the righties tell them what to do.  I doubt we’re going to see a return to the veil in Egypt anytime soon, but the trains will probably run on time.

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L’Enfer, C’est Les Autres

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

Well, it appears that I’m stupid.  Or at least not nearly as intelligent as I think I am.

That’s no surprise.  My father once asked me, after telling me my whole life what a genius I was, “Has it ever occurred to you that you’re not as smart as you think you are?”  This might have had something to do with dropping out of college for the second time.  I don’t remember.  I just tucked the statement away in my trophy cabinet of family resentments—it falls to me to keep them shiny and updated—and only vaguely recollect the circumstance, just how his face was red and his jowls were shaking.

We must, of course, lead with a picture of Mama G. shashaying in her favorite nougat muu muu. I never got to comment about how she kept a scrapbook of clippings dedicated to her obsession, Condoleezza Rice. Had the revolution never happened, Rice was going to be her Halloween outfit.

I joined Facebook very late in the game and still remain extremely ambivalent about it.  No, I’m not ambivalent.  I think it’s… Not my thing, to avoid other invectives.  I find it really creepy, for instance, that it seems to know that I have some connection to someone I do have a connection with, but Facebook couldn’t possibly know given my current friends list because there are no mutual friend connections to that other someone.  Facebook just knows.

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You Are a Tourist

TUTTLE MODE

by James Tuttle

Gentle reader,

This may come as some surprise for our readers who check in regularly but I don’t have anything new to report from the world of reality television this week, unless it’s about a new show called “James Tuttle’s Stunningly Beautiful Holiday and What to Wear on It.”  Yes, I’m writing to you from sunny Mexico, where Scott and I have escaped for a week of fun and relaxation.  And, no, I don’t think any network would bankroll a show about me going on vacation, as much as I’d like them to.

Sebastian Rulli: Argentina born but Fame found him in Mexico

Our usual destination has normally been lovely Puerto Vallarta but we decided to try something different and settled on Los Cabos, though I began to regret this decision on the flight down because the plane was full of people that, to put it delicately, weren’t really the kind of people I was hoping to spend my holiday looking at.  Americans traveling abroad aren’t generally icons of grace and style with their enormous tee shirts and ill-fitting shorts and this bunch was no different in that regard. Continue reading

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Correction: Natalie Portman IS Satan

Whaddaya know, it turns out I was prescient about Natalie Portman.  There I am trying to lure readers with silly, lurid post titles like Natalie Portman Carrying Satan’s Child, and the next thing you know, Repube presidential candidate Mike Huckabee is jumping on my bandwagon and attacking her, too.  The difference is, he’s serious.

Natalie Portman rules in hell. Let's face it, the Black Swan was so much cooler than the White, who deserved what she got, that simpering ninny. I bet there will be moments when Nats looks at her bf like this when she's giving birth.

Or Huckabee was serious until he back-pedaled and then said he was glad that Nats was marrying her boyfriend, as if the impending marriage made it all okay and legitimized the pregnancy and the relationship and crap-wallah-wallah-crap.  Okay, Mike, let’s forget for a minute how offensive that comment is to the underclass ten percent (at least) of this nation who can only legally marry their fag hags.  Actually, let’s not forget.  Cleverer political commentators than I can poke more accurate holes in you and your idiocies.  I just need to underscore how outrageous this whole marriage thing is, period.  Why don’t we simply ban the whole institution, already, there’s bound to be something unconstitutional about it.

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Lady Gaga’s All-You-Can-Eat Vag Buffet

I have to admit, I briefly joined my nieces, Savannah (7) and Uma (5.5), as a fan of Lady Gaga after Bad Romance was released last year.  I thought it was stompin’ good fun, not to mention that it kept me company whenever I thought about my love life.  But she has lost me with this:

In a nutshell, it’s a very expensive sophomore art school project.  She is trying too hard and the results of her efforts fall short of her earlier video work.  And, yes, that last sentence was rewritten several times; Galliano has homos worldwide stopping themselves before they go too far with what they really think.

Even though my nieces are Episcopalian Hindus — also known in the more rarified circles of Tribeca as ‘Piscadoos’ — at the risk of sounding like an avuncular prig, I’m not sure I want them to see filmed reenactments of the Black Goddess Kali giving birth to the cosmos as might be interpreted by H.R. Giger.  I can just imagine explaining this video to them.

“Uncle James, what is Lady Gaga doing with her cooch-cooch?”

“She’s letting her vagina enjoy a David Cronenberg moment, darling.  And stop calling it cooch-cooch, you’re making it sound like a region in West Bengal.”

“What do you mean what you just said she’s doing with her vagina, then?”

“We’ll talk about it when you’re old enough to watch twisted R-rated psycho-dramas funded by the Canadian government.  How about we watch something appropriate, like The Tudors?”

They love The Tudors.

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Post-Spanking Stress Disorder

Yet another salacious headline to rope you into reading this.  I’m not really stressed.  I’m thrilled, actually.  The reaction to yesterday’s post was gratifyingly positive, not to mention the cause of a huge surge in hits to this blog.  It’s a new record to beat.  I’ll have to start inventing scandalous encounters with celebs to keep up with myself.

Bettie Page getting spanked yet again. Some girls ask for it, over and over again.

A big thank you to the gravelly-voiced Lady in Black, my old friend Madame Diane Pernet, for posting the Galliano piece on her site.  My trusty WordPress dashboard tells me she is almost entirely responsible for driving readers to my blog.

Not that I need to clarify this because everyone seemed to get it, but the point of the Spanking Galliano post was not just to relate some humorously titillating anecdote about a fallen star, or to further participate in mashing that star into the black hole he has made of himself.  The major purpose of the blog was to spank him again, this time myself rather than having some child giant do it for me, as evidenced by the last few paragraphs of the post.

Not the sharpest needle in the sweat shop, Galliano arrives for his arraignment in Paris.

I honestly didn’t anticipate the hits from the Galliano post to be that many. I thought that would happen from scandalized Indians upset that the 1993 Miss India pageant was rigged, but there was nary a peep from them about that.  Hits to the blog remained completely flat the day before yesterday, when I finally came clean about the rigging after long years of suffering in silence, guilt strafing my soul like fighter jets over Taliban strongholds in Helmand Province.  I’m apparently the only one who is still haunted by the outraged wails of gorgeous, long-legged Punjabi lasses backstage behind that awful peacock set when they realized their chance at the crown had been stolen by the daughter of some local industrialist, who allegedly bought it for her.  Oh, well.

Whenever there is a major disaster, and the Galliano dismissal is something of a fashion 9/11 — Who will replace him? Who has the same energy and breadth of vision? Will Dior survive? Will couture itself survive? — conspiracy theories are never far behind.  The more extreme rumor mills are saying that Galliano has been such a catastrophe-in-waiting that LVMH has been trying to get rid of him for years.  They are saying that the people who took the video were sent by the Evil Suits in the Boardroom to goad him on and film him being his naturally racist drunken self.  To wit, LVMH stock barely batted a heavily lashed, gold-leafed Pat McGrath eyelid on the news of Master Galliano’s exile.

I don’t believe the conspiracy nonsense.  No matter how well framed the video was, I think it was coincidence.  I don’t know how old the people taunting him were, but I remember that when I was a bratty youngster hanging out in the Marais I was very cheeky with celebrities.  We feel we know famous people because they so much a part of our lives.  When they are friendly to us, the next thing you know we’re talking back at them like they’re dotty aunts we’ve been teasing since childhood.  Celebrities in the arts are bona fide eccentrics: they’re artists, so they will tend to talk and banter back.  And fight.

I’ve been monitoring a bit of the chat on gay sites regarding the sinking of Battleship Galliano.   It is as usual confused and a bit bird-brained; the ninny gene can run strong at times in Homolandia.  Half of them seem to want to rally around a talented sister they feel was goaded into doing what any self-respecting drunk troll with severe body dysmorphia is entitled to do, which is to lash back with any random bitter-old-queen invective at hand, the nastier the better.  That was Galliano’s own brand of Eau de Vitriol we heard, limited edition.  The out-of-control barbed tongue is a self-defense mechanism most gays recognize, which arises from being taunted and humiliated during childhood at school.  Again, this doesn’t excuse John his behavior; I stand steadfastly behind my spanking with a firm hand.  But for what it’s worth it is something of an explanation.

Recalling my encounter with Galliano, I’ll tell you honestly what my assessment of him was when I got back to London from that trip to Paris: he wasn’t very bright intellectually.  I had met a genius who wasn’t at all cerebral, and that was a first for me, and of course something I needed to process intellectually.  It explained a lot about the fashion world, where it is often difficult to have a sustained “serious” discussion of any depth with anyone, and yet this doesn’t mean they are stupid.

This led me to further investigation into the Theory of Multiple Intelligences, which I’ll let you explore more in the link if you’re interested.  Having said this, I have met and befriended a number of fashion designers in my time who are equally creative and intellectual, it’s just that none of them were quite at Galliano’s creative level.

Muhammed Ali was a genius in his own way, but I can think of plenty of other people I would rather sit next to on a non-stop flight to Asia with the entertainment system down and nothing to read.

I’m now a firm believer in multiple intelligence.  I’ll never forget watching this lunk of a trainer at my gym working out on the boxing bags.  Not even if I trained a whole other lifetime would I have such assured physical genius as his.  And yet I couldn’t hire him as my trainer because the thought of spending an hour or two a week trying to make conversation with him in between sets was inconceivable; you could tell he could barely understand half of what I said.

Going forward,  I’m going to stop the puerile attention-grabbing and not put up any more pictures of poor Amanda Seyfried’s breasts.  A big apology to my virtual friend Old Ancestor, who was enjoying those.  That joke has run its course, served its purpose.  Thank you Amanda, and Natalie Portman for being such a sport about my teasing.  You too, Brooklyn Decker, whoever you are.  I will start expanding the scope of this blog soon and include reviews, contributors and interviews.  I’m seriously enjoying this.

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Shut Up! Fuck Off! You’re Lying!

And so we continue with the shamelessly extroverted post titles.

It’s Oscar day.  Ho hum for most of us, nauseatingly exciting for those up for awards.  Literally nauseating: I would be puking in a bucket right now if I were nominated.  With the helicopters whirling overhead because the Kodak Theater is less than ten blocks away, it’s time for me to muse about the Oscars from the perspective of a bit of satellite debris orbiting Planet Hollywood.

Liam Neeson as Oskar Schindler looking like my Oscar-wishful producer.

Once upon a career, I had this executive producer in London who looked like a British Oskar Schindler as played by Liam Neeson, which, yes, meant he looked a bit like Liam.  He even smoked these little cigars, had a super cut-glass accent, wore blue blazers and jeans, and in general wowed me as being the archetypal dashing playboy Euro-producer.  Naturally, I hung on his every word.  The fact he wasn’t particularly successful, and like most of the people in our business sat around planning and talking about making films rather than actually making them, made not a tick of difference to me.  He looked the part.  And in this filmmaker’s mind, I had cast him in the movie of my life as the man who would produce me.  Finally.

“James, my boy,” Faux Oskar said to me once (yes, he actually used to call me James My Boy, with a slight wave of his cheroot, which dazzled me), “Anyone who tells you he isn’t in the film business to win an Oscar is lying.”  I gulped.  It had been a very long time since I had fantasized about winning an Oscar, of giving That Speech in my mind.  My mother was more excited about the prospect of my ever winning than I was (“Can I accept it for you, darling?  Wouldn’t that be fun to have your mum up there?”) However, if Faux Oskar said it, it must be true.  So I became a liar without a lie and let no one know I had no Oscar ambitions.

The real truth is I actually do this film thing because I love it.  It’s not work for me the way jobs are for most other people.  When I am seized with the passion of a project, it’s better than being high on sex-enhancing drugs in an orgy of gorgeous people, and that feeling lasts for the duration of the gig.  Now you have an idea of why we’re all so addicted to it, at the expense of all reason.

A few years later, I was in Los Angeles on a second date with this insanely handsome German guy, the kind who should have “Arrogance” tattooed between his shoulder blades, the kind the real Oskar Schindler risked so much to screw over.  This Uber-Douche invited me to an Oscar party in a loft downtown, during which he kept sneaking off to the bathroom and doing coke.  The fact he didn’t offer me any was bad enough, but what made it worse is that his already rampant Narcissism Personality Disorder was now a Godzilla in the room.  He had become Super Uber-Douche.

It was one of those Oscars that happen to me every few years where people I have known in the past were involved with the ceremony, either dishing out or receiving.  I believe Faye Dunaway, with whom I’d had a long history when I was much younger, not all of it pleasant, was one of the presenters.  Then Akiva Goldsman, whom I had known pretty well in college, won for Best Adapted Screenplay.  I groaned.

Crapmeister Akiva Goldsman turning into a genius. Akiva's greatest contribution to the arts is probably having inspired me to drop out of Wesleyan.

Now, the reason I groaned was not because I dislike Akiva particularly, even though he was the final straw that made me to decide to drop out of Wesleyan and move to Paris and become a fashion photographer’s assistant.  What happened on that occasion is I was very high on pot sitting in my friend Tom Rockwell’s kitchen at college and feeling paranoid (I was a freshman, Akiva was older, so that was extra paranoid-making), and he was trying to explain phenomenology to this other guy, and I just couldn’t grasp it.  Little did I know until I shacked up with a philosophy professor twenty years later that I was by no means alone in not understanding phenomenology.

I decided then and there that a) Wesleyan displeased me aesthetically in general, and b) admissions had made a mistake; I was far too dumb to be there.  The hidden third c) was that I desperately wanted to get back to Europe, where I had grown up.  America was still in a bit of a troglodyte era, ruled by Reagan; the croissant had yet to be introduced to McDonalds.

So there was Akiva, winning an Oscar for “Beautiful Mind,” fumbling through his speech, during which, in typical Wesleyan fashion, he sucked up to all of Power Hollywood from CAA (a Wesleyan creation) to Steven Spielberg.  Like I said, I didn’t groan because I dislike “Keevie,” as we called him back then, but because he was shattering my schadenfreude.  Up until that moment, Akiva was known as “Hollywood’s Crapmeister,” the man blamed for killing the first iteration of the Batman franchise.  That is no mean feat.  If I had been known as Hollywood’s Crapmeister, I would have committed hari kiri, ergo the schadenfreude.  But when he won the Oscar, I knew that from that moment, Akiva was screenwriting royalty, my new king, or at the very least a powerful arch-duke with connections to kings.  He was no longer a crapmeister, one of the worst writers around, someone whose presumed misery had made me feel better about mine; he would be forever more a “genius.”  And so I groaned.

And after I groaned, Uber-Douche turned to me and said, “You vill never vin von of dose.”  If he was grinding his teeth because of the coke he hadn’t offered me, I was grinding mine to stop myself from punching him.

Later at a club he announced, “Ok, vee go home now.”

“So go,” I replied.  And patted myself on the back for rejecting Apollo.

Wanna buy an Oscah? Peggy Siegal has one for you for the right price.

James, you ask, you are obviously the ultimate Hollywood outsider’s insider.  How does one win an Oscar? Easy.  Just have insane good fortune, a modicum of talent — filmmaking is not rocket science, believe me, not at all — and a fantastic publicist.  That’s what ultimately gets you the award.  Err on the side of caution and hire Peggy Siegal.  Done.  She’s a nightmare, but funny in a way, if you like your gossip hardcore.  She will stop at nothing and stoop to everything to reach your goals.

Speaking of hardcore gossip, we reach the explanation for the title of this blog post, a tribute to my friend, Indian fashion designer Malini Ramani.  It’s the way she gossips, I can never get enough of listening to her.  Across a crowded room at a noisy party, you can hear her breathlessly soaking in the latest dish, and she has this raspy voice that resonates through the sturdiest inebriated atoms.   When she hears the first tidbit she always says, in the Delhi upper class nasal singsong, “Shut up!”  This is how the speaker knows the story is good.  Getting a Shut Up! from Malini is the Michelin one star of quality South Asian gossip.  If you are lucky to get a Fuck off! next, you have really made the grade.  But it’s said like this: “Fuck! Off!” followed by a sharp intake of breath.  Now, if this isn’t just gossip, but a bona fide scandal, you will be rewarded with the third star: “YOU’RE LY-ING!” And “lying” is said just like that, both syllables clearly distinguished and with such force of purpose that the capital letters sway to the right as if gusted by a sharp wind of flabbergastedness.

My friend, Indian fashion designer Malini Ramani, at the end of one of her shows (she's the short one). I guess this collection was entitled "Injuns: Feathers, Not Dots." She's probably in full gossip with the gal on her left. There isn't a single moment one shouldn't be fully gossip-immersed, even at a curtain call.

Of course, you aren’t really lying, it just means that you have dished the goz so superbly, scooped every seasoned saried-and-bejeweled doyen in the room to the punch so expertly that you can only be LY-ING.  Given that most of Delhi gossip is pure fabrication generated simply for the sake of adding a little masala to the otherwise overly sweet and dull dolce vita everyone there swims in, being a liar is the Oscar of compliments.

No Killough Rant-Post would be complete without a mention of my (in my opinion) execrable psycho landlady, Susan Blais, whom I shall see in court the week after next, after which I shall give you more details, including the address of this shithole she owns so that you avoid it like the plague (I heard from another tenant that not long ago this place was lousy with fleas and bedbugs for six months until she was forced to fumigate).  And of course no Pure Film Creative post would be complete without a pic of Amanda Seyfried’s breasts, so here you are:

A double treat today, even though it is once again just Amanda's side boob. The other tit is Julianne Moore's breast, which probably won't get me as many hits as typing Amanda Seyfried's breast. What is Amanda doing with her right hand? Why, Amanda Seifried is fingering Julianne Moore! Now THAT should net me a half dozen more adorable perv readers for my blog. Thanks, girls. Keep up the good work. See you at the Oscars!

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The Dreadful Truth About Mila Kunis

I will admit it, I have become something of a dashboard junkie, as they say on WordPress.com, home to close to 700,000 blogs, most of which are more popular than mine.  Well, maybe I’m not a complete junkie.  Making that claim would diminish the pain and suffering of those who are true addicts struggling one day at a time through Dashboards Anonymous.

A screenshot of the search portion of my dashboard as of this morning, showing part of the sick-fuck searches that have landed people on my blog. Of course, I am as thrilled as the Marquis de Sade unwrapping a new torture rack for Christmas that I am attracting such perverted detritus to my blog.

The dashboard is a customizable page, elegantly laid out, easy to use, which controls the blog, its format, etcetera, but also shows all sorts of esoteric stats.  What is astounding is that somehow someone pulled up my page twice yesterday searching for “triple cunted hooker.”  What the hell is that?  I note that my friend Lara Harris surfaced twice as well, which might be a reason she’s not replying to emails or texts, and she’s always responsive.  She’s probably furious she ended up in a blog entitled Gay Old Loony Douchebags on Steroids, I suppose.  I’m unmaking friends with this already, sigh.  Well, we’ve known each other for 30 years, I’m sure we’ll survive a goosing online.

I am also pleased about the “older men fucking twinks,” which must refer to the insert in the Gay Old Loony post of the image of the girly twink from Glee, Chris Colfer, even though I myself don’t have a taste for twinks.

I will admit that I am almost completely caught up with episodes of Glee.  At one point, it embarrassed me as a gay barely closeted homophobe just how gay that show is.  Gay and lesbian. At first I fast-forwarded over the musical numbers, but everyone kept saying, “But that’s the whole point!”  just like that, with the exclamation point.  And their voices would go up when they said it.  So now I watch the fakakta musical numbers.  Well, some of them: not the show tunes, not the duets, and not most of the ballads.  I’ve found the musical numbers are the best opportunity to go and do something else in the kitchen or bathroom while something anodyne splashes around in the background.  I really just want to see Jane Lynch and that blond bimbo, Heather Morris, who has all the best lines.  Dumb people are almost as fun to write as schizophrenics.

Heather Morris, who plays the supremely funny dumb-and-dumber character Brittany on Glee. You can tell she's probably a natural blonde because her name is Heather, and only people who are blond themselves name their daughters Heather because, well, heather is the color of wheat unless it's muddy and you'd look very foolish if your daughter were named Heather and she were a redhead.

A few of the  cast members from Glee work out at Gold’s Gym Hollywood, where if you don’t already know from the aforementioned Gay Old Loony post, I also practice the strenuous art of gravitational-pull-on-the-flesh defiance.  I have seen Matthew Morrison there, and I have to say, dude is fucking fit, in seriously great shape.  I believe that the pneumatically lipped Chord Overstreet also works out there, and might be trained by nutritionist-slash-trainer-to-the-stars Bernardo Coppola, who once told me that he is a second cousin to the illustrious filmmakers-slash-vintners; however, I am told by a reliable source whose last name rhymes with “subtle” that this may be a misrepresentation of the truth.  I’m saying I think Overstreet works out there because Bernardo was training a blond kid with Angelina lips yesterday who I swear was Overstreet, but the kid was wearing a red baseball cap pulled so far down over his head that he looked more like a teenaged duck from the Cartoon Network.

Trainer to TV nobility Bernardo Coppola, who despite his claims is probably not related to Sofia. I have no further comments to this image because I think it speaks for itself, and for Gold's Gym Hollywood in general.

I’m not very good with celebrity sightings, see.  They usually have to come up and introduce themselves before I recognize them.  For instance, apparently I almost collided with Sarah Silverman on the street in Weho the other day, and almost colliding with anyone on the street in LA is as rare as a solar eclipse, but I didn’t notice.  My friend had to point it out.  And I love Sarah Silverman, I would like to do shots of tequila with her and smoke cigarettes out on the patio of a Mexican restaurant under a heat lamp with her.

Sarah Silverman incognito once again. Is it any wonder I missed her on the street after nearly bumping into her? I wonder if she dyes her mustache with Just For Men medium brown as well.

So it looks like this is turning into some warped celebrity blog in order to drive up readership, which is fine because I’m a star-fucker like anyone else; I drop names more than my abominable landlady Susan Blais sheds tenants, all in the effort to make the person I’m speaking to be awestruck, regardless of the fact I don’t recognize most celebs when I see them.   Vogue editor Anna Wintour has understood that celebrities on the cover get more women to buy her insipid door jam of a magazine.  I shall do the same to trap innocent, depraved keyword searchers in the Web of Killough.

So, big apologies to Mila Kunis, who I’m sure isn’t addicted to crack — the original title of this post was going to be, “Mila Kunis on Crack.”  Had it been “Mila Kunis’s Crack,” I would get even more hits from my lovable coterie of pervs.  Mila, you have the misfortune of being in fourth position on the IMDb Starmeter this week, and now that I have written the last few sentences, I will pick up a few readers interested in your vagina.

What can I say? The internet is god.

Post Scriptum: I usually don’t follow anything Charlie Sheen, even though you think I would because his sort of behavior makes me wince-chuckle in a sort of there-but-for-the-grace-of-god-go-I way, but this latest rant of his was priceless.  What a douche, what a brat, what a scramble-brains.  I’ll bet he gets into serious fantasy roleplay when he’s high and smothered in hookers.  He just doesn’t know when the fantasy begins and when it ends any more.  Bless his black heart.

Wait, before I go, one more picture.  This one of me with Amanda Seyfried’s breasts, which always get me more hits (thanks, boys):

James Killough and Amanda Seyfried

If I put myself (James Killough, needs to be mentioned, sorry) together with Amanda Seyfriend and her breasts like this comp, we become married in the interweb, together forever. I need to have better pictures of me for Google image search, which is why I'm being so bizarrely random with this.

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Who The F*ck Is Brooklyn Decker?

I don’t know why I couldn’t bring myself to spell out fuck in the title.  I feel like an old-fashioned wuss.  I’ll never forget what my mum said after I gave an (extremely) drunk toast at my sister’s civil wedding in New York (as opposed to the ten-day one in India), “You said fuck nine times in your speech.  But you’re so intelligent.”  As if saying the word fuck is equated with stupidity.  And this is coming from an Australian woman; I think her own mother taught me the word to begin with when I was five or six.  But Grandma Iris taught me how to say it proper Aussie-like, in a cluster, as in “shit-fuck-piss.”  Slippery slide into American middle class mores, there, mum.  The fact that some friend of the family’s whose name I can never remember still comes up to me at cocktail parties and tells me, ten years later, how that was the best wedding speech ever is irrelevant.  I’m still a foulmouthed dummy.

I will never really know who Brooklyn Decker is because I will never see "Just Go For It," despite the fact that I really like Jennifer Aniston. This new piece of studio boardroom-generated dreck is presumably why Brooklyn has shot to number two on the IMDb Starmeter, just below the demonically inseminated Natalie Portman. Brooklyn is on the right. Apparently she plays the sweet, giddy blonde (formerly incarnated by the prototype sweet, giddy blonde, Goldie Hawn, in a previous version of the film) opposite Jennifer's savvy-sassy modern woman blonde, originally played by Ingrid Bergman, who was never blond despite being Swedish.

Yes, I’m still crapping on about the IMDb Starmeter.  Why, you ask, as you keep one eye on my blog while you prepare to download a movie from Vuze and contribute to the further decline of the movie business? (Go ahead, download.  I’ve got my fiddle ready to play when Bel Air burns.)  Well, one reason is that discussion about the Starmeter, which measures search hits of celebs on the IMDb, sort of segues from the whole intention of this blog to begin with: to increase my visibility online and drive customers to my web design and content shop, Pure Film Creative.  The other related reason is that my experiment worked yesterday: By slanderously, or as my mother might say unintelligently, slapping on that headline about Natalie Portman bearing the devil’s child, hits to my blog soared.  Sorry, Nats (I know people call you that because I used to bang one of your posse from Harvard — damned kinky bugger, I might add), but I work fucking hard on this blog and need readers, even if it’s at your expense.

So Brooklyn Decker is now number two on the Starmeter, which everyone pretends not to care about, and in fact it is kinda boring after the first three days of tinkering with it, but in reality almost everyone really wants to be as popular as possible.  You can graduate us from high school, but never take the high school out of us.

Another pic of Brooklyn Decker I downloaded from the IMDb. I can't seem to find any pix of her breasts, which would bring more hits to my blog. She looks like my former landlady, Linda Hertsgaard, whom I miss so much these days when I'm being persecuted by the execrable Susan Blais.

What do you think happened to make Brooklyn Decker, who doesn’t look like she was ever unpopular, so popular outside of the Sports Illustrated crowd?  Do you think that women ran out of this Adam Sandler/Jennifer Aniston rom com remake of a Walter Matthau/Ingrid Bergman original and dove to their computers and madly looked up Brooklyn Decker on the IMDb, shooting her to number two, sandwiched between two Academy Award nominees for best actress, bride-of-Satan Natalie Portman and Jennifer Lawrence from “Winter’s Bone“?  Or do you think her publicist, listed on the IMDb as Jesse Stowell, had some oompa-loompas in India or somewhere compulsively click on Brooklyn’s name until she reached the stratosphere of Starmeter-dom?  Frankly, the latter prospect sounds exhausting and ludicrous, but you never know.  People really do take this shit seriously.  I mean, look at me, scribbling over a thousand words a night sometimes trying to raise my internet presence, ten years too late.

Okay, I've sort of found a pic of Brooklyn Decker's breasts. Call them demi-breasts. Is that brown re-growth under the "blond" hair? Tsk, tsk, so disappointing.

Speaking of which, do you know what the going rate for an internet article is? One cent a word.  One cent.  To give you an idea of where we are with this, a decent traditional print magazine pays between a buck and two PER WORD.  If you’re famous, more.  That’s one hundred times more, minimum.  Oh Gaddafies of internet content, hear me: if the average web article is 450 words, one cent is less than minimum wage.  The savagery of this iniquity is almost enough to make me regret I didn’t joined the Writer’s Guild before my eligibility ran out (they never told me I only had three years after the release of my one and only feature film to be released in the US to pay the exorbitant joining fee).  I’m sure the Guild will shut down the entire internet at some point to rectify this, ‘cuz that’s the power of film, baby.

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