THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES
by James Killough
Over drinks the other night with Dame Bea and Tyler Kimball, my roommate, the psychic medium Gil Alan, was asked if I disturbed his peace at all, seeing as we both work from home. “Not at all,” Gil replied. “Except sometimes I can’t tell if he’s talking to me and mumbling, or just talking to himself.” The scary truth is I am becoming more of a Hollywood schizo every day and having lengthy conversations with myself, utterly oblivious as to who might be watching me.
As long as I am displaying the outward signs of incipient mental illness, I’ve decided to embrace it. In true American post-Oprah fashion, I refuse to be the victim and want to take charge of what’s left of my destiny by choosing my hallucinations before they choose me. Therefore, I have decided that my inner muse, my mentor, my political advisor, that invisible large white bunny who shall stand beside me for a chat in the condiments section of Ralphs supermarket shall be none other than fashion kingpin Karl Lagerfeld.
by James Tuttle | @TuttleMode
I turned on the TV the other day to have something in the background as I hung little Chinese lanterns on our Christmas tree, but I wasn’t really in the mood to watch football. That probably has something to do with the fact that I fucking hate watching football. Luckily, there was a twelve-hour marathon of this show called Untold Stories of the E.R. on TLC where we learn how emergency-room physicians become quick-thinking medical detectives, along with some astoundingly bad acting and the tedious re-caps and “coming up” parts that stretch a half-hour concept into an hour-long program.
I’d probably watch football if the Clippinger Twins were playing. (ph: Jeff Slater)
About the time I was balancing the yellow dragon’s head on the top of the tree, I heard the narrator say, “It’s Independence Day in the E.R., which means senior staff get the weekend off.” I immediately thought, “What? The most qualified physicians take off the one weekend when those drunk idiots out there are most likely to crash their boats or blow off their hillbilly fingers lighting illegal M-80s to celebrate the birth of America?”
by James Tuttle
Allow me to apologize in advance.
You see, I’d already had quite a day. For some reason, I took a hike in the Hills even though I was already dying from leg day at the gym. Then my spray tan was accidentally set at level two. I always use the lowest setting for completely natural looking color and never get clocked so this was potentially disastrous.
Tanning: Brazilians do it better (Photo: L.Luna)
Then, after an hour of negotiating a steamy L.A. while trying not to sweat—because, of course, perspiration is the enemy of the faux tan—my favorite bartender Kevin made me a couple of strong margaritas at St. Felix Hollywood as I navigated the dearth of images streaming in from the Paris shows. So you’ll understand that when I finally plopped down in front of the television Sunday evening, tired and a little fuzzyheaded, VH1’s Tough Love: Miami seemed like a really good idea at the time.
by James Tuttle
Are you sitting down? If not, maybe you should be. I have something to tell you. You may have come to know me as an icon of taste and style over these past weeks but I have a terrible admission. I’m not actually perfect. For one thing, my left thumb bends a little crooked, the result of a nasty childhood break. And that’s not the worst of it. I am also recovering from an acute addiction problem.
The last thing I wanted to do was disappoint you, especially now that we’ve become so close. If you think back over our history, we’ve been betrayed by Balmain together, dealt with trampy Housewives, and confronted drag as an art form. You and I have even learned some tricks for the over-40 guy and gone on the lam from the damn mafia, so I feel I should be honest with you. I’m just going to say it. I was addicted to HGTV.
I don’t know how it started. I can’t even remember which show I first watched on this seductive network but it was quickly followed by another and then another until HGTV was on whenever I was home. You have to admit that Candice Olsen does very glamorous work with her gas fireplaces and crystal chandeliers. David Bromstad designed great rooms in the Bay Area, especially when he wasn’t wearing his shirt, before he tanked on the Miami season. Maybe he started wearing his shirt too much.
David Bromstad could really warm up a room without his shirt on. Then he put one on and went to Miami and... ho hum.
And don’t get me started on Sarah’s House! Unbeknownst to them, I was involved a love triangle with Sarah and her witty sidekick Tommy, as they overhauled a sixties suburban split-level one season and then a Victorian farmhouse the next. Continue reading