Tag Archives: celebrities

Joey Rubin, Street Jew

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

I got back from a hike through Hollywoodland Friday afternoon, during which I did not see Moby but I did throw envy at his castle, and found a note on Facebook from my buddy Joey Rubin inviting any of his friends in LA to a get-together for Turner Movie Classics at a Eva Longoria’s restaurant Beso two blocks away from me.

You would think that the decision to go would have been difficult, seeing as I’d just sworn off alcohol for all eternity: I had a stonkin’ hangover from too much red wine with Dame Bea at Yamashiro the night before.  That hike through the hills had been like willfully rattling my head in a barrel for an hour and a half.  But there I was bounding down the street to have a drink with Joey faster than you can shake a martini pitcher.

No, this isn't a picture of Joey Rubin. It's what Joey Rubin might look like if he were a gay Brazilian model. And, yes, our experiment to lure readers with gratuitous images of bare-chested hunks is working better than Amanda Seyfried's breasts.

Joey is the proof to my refutation of a classic cliché, which was voiced by Dame Bea and her friend Deborah when we were walking up to Yamashiro the night before.  We passed a house with a very handsome man leaning out of the window, with whom we bantered briefly without breaking stride.

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The Joy of Stalking

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

Alan Cumming has a new site up dedicated to obsessions, itsasickness.com.  I would say it celebrates passions more than obsessions in the truest sense of the word, and I am hanging on the truest sense because the site does have “sickness” in its title.  And sick obsession reminds of the time I went truly mentally ill and stalked a former lover.

Knowing Alan as I do, he probably means sickness as in the recent colloquialism “That is so sick,” like it’s a really good thing.  In the video up on the site right now, Zoe Kravitz is obsessed with a green dragon plushie costume, with how it makes her feel empowered.  This isn’t my particular experience of people obsessed with plushie.  The plushophiles I’ve met are rather lovable, extreme introverts who like to dress up as cartoon characters and have kinky sex.

Zoe Kravitz vogues plushophile lite in Williamsburg for itsasickness.com.

I had a brush with plushophilia and diaper fetishists back in the early Noughties through a friend, Gene, who also had extreme social anxiety disorder (SAD).  Gene was one of a trio of people who would trigger the mnemonic that gave rise to my play Hatter, the film version of which Alan Cumming has been attached to, just so you follow my meandering train of thought.  Gene had some hilarious stories about “furries” Continue reading

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Don’t Gentleman Me

BLOGIRADE

by James Killough

Never one to be terribly quick on the uptake, I needed time to think about Tom Ford’s “five easy lessons in how to be a modern gentleman” from Another Magazine, which went surprising viral, namely because of the silliness of the fifth lesson about flip-flops and shorts in the city.  Ford is described in Another as a “fashion powerhouse, film mogul and old school romantic.”  I have decided that the second descriptor, “film mogul,” is tongue-in-cheek, although knowing the fashion press as well as I do, whoever wrote that is either sucking up to Ford or actually believes that because Ford’s one and only film was so well styled and shot it has somehow propelled the designer to the top of the film business.

Too close to home: Colin Firth looks into the blue eyes of a dirty blonde half his age in "A Single Man." I wouldn't date a kid in a pink angora sweater, though. A lime-green hoodie, yes.

I was pleasantly surprised by A Single Man.  No, pleasantly is too mild and a cliché.  I was staggered by how good it was.  Everyone in the Biz had been following Ford’s misadventures trying to get it made with not a small amount of schadenfreude.  How dareth the designing fagelah wander into our rarified climes?

I know both the film business and the fashion world intimately, and there is no question as to which is the more difficult to succeed in.  Fashion people are continuously astounded at how long it takes to make a feature film: nine years on average, no matter who you are.  Even the humblest designer working in some storefront in Williamsburg would have churned out at least eighteen collections by then.  What needs to be taken into account is production on one entire collection costs less than a single day’s shoot on an indie feature film. Continue reading

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Matt Damon Gets Religion

Matt Damon and Emily Blunt think they are about to meet God and are appropriately slack-jawed at the prospect, as I would be. Actually, I'd be snickering while pretending to go along with the prank.

I take movies way too seriously.  I don’t mean the business of filmmaking, that’s too much of a surreal farce, like a performance of Ubu Roi in a never-ending loop with Harvey Weinstein, Scott Rudin and Steven Spielberg alternating in the role of Père Ubu.  I mean the movies themselves.  I’m constantly relating real life to cinematic reality, a sure sign of not-so-latent mental illness.  For instance, I might be in an animated conversation about my landlady, the Wicked Blais, gesticulating like a Roman trying to wiggle out of blame for a traffic accident, and I’ll say something like, “I’m just like Burt Reynolds in that scene in Deliverance when he’s down, his leg is broken, bone jutting out, and the rabid hillbillies are coming after him and he picks up his crossbow and …”  All of this is to say that while I know Matt Damon is only engaged in an extended game of adult Let’s Pretend when he makes a movie, I’m a bit concerned about two of his recent choices, The Adjustment Bureau and Hereafter.

I really loved the first twenty minutes of TAB. And I mean that: I more than enjoyed it, I loved it. I was smiling. I thought, Hmmm, this might shape up to be the intellectual challenge that Inception wasn’t.  Then they brought God into it, and I started fiddling with my Blackberry, itching for a game of poker. (I am way down right now, over a million dollars at the World Series tables, but that’s nothing compared to the fiasco a month ago when the damned thing reset and I lost thirty-one million in a nanosecond.)

Let me jump off the rails a second to talk about Inception.  I was expecting too much from a major summer release, I think.  My expectations were raised even more when I had a brief scene with a showcase Cali couple just outside the Arclight Cinerama Dome in Hollywood.

“Are you going to chain your bike right there?” the She of the couple asked.

“Uh, yes, that’s right,” I replied, resisting a retort like, No, I’m just practicing public displays of light bondage with my buddy Schwinn, here.  You know these Germans, so kinky. Continue reading

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The Venerable Johnny Depp

Praise the Lord.  I have seen Johnny Depp’s apotheosis and it is named Rango.  It’s like he’s pulled together all of his work since Edward Scissorhands into one masterpiece symphony in the form of an animated feature.  It all makes sense now.  Rango tips its mottled cowboy hat to Ed Wood, to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, but most of all, intentionally or not, to Jim Jarmusch’s Dead Man, the last Jarmusch film I truly enjoyed, as opposed to feeling flattened by enervation.

I don't know why they kept calling Rango a lizard when he was in fact a chameleon. I know, chameleons are lizards, but lizards makes them sound so pedestrian. Maybe the studios felt that American audiences would be too tempted to pronounce the "ch."

If you haven’t heard by now, Rango is truly trippy, brilliantly written, gorgeously animated, superbly voiced, and I have serious doubts it will ever make its real cost back.  If the studio reported a budget of $135 million, it’s bound to be much more than that.  Rango is basically an art film with a big Hollywood finish, which you really don’t mind because the whole journey is so jaw-droppingly audacious and bizarre.  It’s certainly the first time I’ve ever been sexually attracted to a rattlesnake.

One hot motherfucker. If you ignore the fact he is voiced by Bill Nighy, this is the sexiest cartoon character since the Beast in "Beauty and the Beast."

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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.

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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.

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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 …”

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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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