by James Tuttle
Over the weekend, I took Scott—or The Gimp, as he is known since fucking up his Achilles tendon last week—and braved the democratic hordes of Universal CityWalk with his crutches to catch the new Avengers movie. This was a happy accident since it happens to be Shoot Your Heroes Week here at PFC.
Chet Corey is available for the next superhero movie.
We’d have normally wandered down the hill to the super-luxe Arclight Cinemas but the movie wasn’t playing there and Disney’s beautifully restored El Capitan Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard wanted $30 a ticket, which they’ll get from me the day they pry it from my cold, dead fingers. Universal is just over the hill, though it sometimes seems light years away culturally. It’s really not so bad once you get the hang of the labyrinthine parking structure and the Mexican kids playing in their underwear in any available water feature.
THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES
by James Killough
I’m trying to make this follow-up post about massive cock a little classier with a title in Latin, which means “phallus conquers all,” a twist on the popular, hopeful gay armband tattoo “omnia vincit amor,” or love conquers all.
Given what has happened in the past few days with hits to our site since the Big Penis Book post, as a content company we have to comment on the effect salacious text and images have on internet traffic. This is also an excellent opportunity for us to post more images from the Taschen books. Out of consideration for our token Str8, the beleaguered Eric Baker, whom I imagine is sitting there in Jersey with his head in his hands regretting his association with the feral, smut-minded Gheys of PFC, we are including images from the Big Book of Breasts as well:
There's no point provoking the good burghers of WordPress with naked erections as the lead image. Plenty of room for that later. Well, as much room as all of this flesh can leave.
Just a quick tangent: I have been asked by a few readers why I sometimes use “Ghey” and other times “gay.” Ghey is the noun, gay is the adjective; e.g., I am a Ghey who makes outrageously gay statements. And henceforth, “Str8” is the noun, “straight” the adjective. There is no rhyme or reason for this; this is my sandbox, my content, I make the rules.
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.
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
TUTTLE MODE | REVIEWS
by James Tuttle
Welcome back, Real Housewives of Orange County! I’ll be damned if every single season you don’t look more like a bunch of high-class prostitutes. It seems that there’s only one place to shop behind the Orange Curtain and it only stocks jersey frocks with spaghetti straps and plunging necklines. Fashion is about making choices, girls, not about dressing like you’re all bridesmaids at the same Cabo San Lucas destination wedding.
The Electric Plastic Frosted un-Real Housewives of OC voguing jersey knit realness.
I don’t get down to Orange County very often, actually never, but I’ve been assured by those who do that it’s very conservative, rather suburban and that the women who live there actually do sport fake blonde hair, fake tans, fake lips and fake boobs just like the Real Housewives cast. It seems like they’re trying to replace the real beauty that comes from a woman embracing and expressing who she is with some kind of bland, plastic imitation. To put it into perspective, this is coming from someone who lives in L.A. Ouch. Continue reading
The keen-eyed sharp dresser, James Tuttle
by James Tuttle
Please welcome a new contributor to PFC, James Tuttle. He will be dropping in from time to time with a few bons mots and opinions about fashion and lifestyle.
I’m taking a short break from watching a riveting episode of Bad Girls Club to share a thought with you. Well, perhaps a few thoughts.
The most immediate is to dissuade as many as possible from using BGC, as this charming and occasionally violent women’s empowerment show is known to its devotees, as any type of fashion reference. You see, I’ve been in the fashion industry for many years and nearly all of those years have been spent with top designers. Whenever I see a young lady veer toward a selection that is embarrassingly (for her or for me?) too short, too tight or too low and hear her declare that it’s “okay because it’s for the clubs,” I suggest that she go topless and write “SLUT” on her forehead. How’s that for a declaration?
Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for “sexy” but that can be better accomplished with a bare back in a high-necked, long sleeved gown. It doesn’t have to involve every possible inch of skin, even if the young lady is in exquisite physical condition. Unfortunately, they rarely are, even in L.A. I should also mention that my morning commute often takes me past an array of Santa Monica Boulevard’s black trannie hookers before I reach Beverly Hills, and I find that they really give me a sense of perspective on the whole matter of just how much is too much.
On the left: Kate Hudson's back. Seriously sexy. On the right: Jennavacia from BGC's front. Seriously something else.
But enough about me. First, Galliano’s supremely stupid pro-Hitler gaffe (in the Marais of all places!) landed him rightfully in the global Dog House. This fall from grace was especially hard to watch after his couture collection for Dior, based on the work of French fashion illustrator René Gruau, brought tears to my eyes and made me fall in love with the drama of it all a little bit more. Where are we to draw the line between the artist and his work? Hitchcock was a sadistic prick and I still love his films. Picasso was a serial womanizer and a sadistic prick and people still pay millions for his paintings. Continue reading
Very aptly, I am the son of a Mad Man. In the 60s and 70s, my father was with one of the larger ad agencies that are referred to from time to time in the dialogue of Mad Men. He accepted a position to head up the Italian operations of that agency, the purview of which was expanded over time, but we the family were based in Rome while he traveled around. The real reason we were there is probably because the US was afraid to lose Italy and France to the communists during the 70s, so we sent some of our “businessmen” over there to help bolster the interests of democracy. If I were in a pitch meeting and had to do a mash up of references to describe Dad, it would be Mad Men meets The Good Shepherd.
If Dad has a quibble with the authenticity of "Mad Men," my only problem with "The Good Shepherd" is the women in my world just didn't look like that, which means it was eerily real.
I won’t delve too much into The Good Shepherd aspect because much of it is conjecture, albeit conjecture based on high probability. Dad has expressed a desire in this last chapter of his life to tell me his story, and I would like him to feel free to do so without fearing that it’s going to end up in a blog side by side with some willfully salacious anecdote that involves sodomy, haute couture and Class A drugs. Suffice it to say, there is a reason the period we lived in Rome is referred to as the anni di piombo, “the years of lead,” referring to the flying bullets and the bombings that seemed to be a part of our daily lives. After we left in ’79, things calmed down in Italy considerably. Hopefully that was just a coincidence. Continue reading
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."
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.
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.