Tag Archives: Karl Lagerfeld

‘True Blood’ Runs Thicker

TUTTLEMODE

by James Tuttle

Gentle reader,

Living in L.A., I get to do a lot of fun things that aren’t exactly common in many other cities around the world and going to premieres is near the top of that list.  First of all, they’re free.  And that goes for the popcorn and soft drinks, too.  Second, if you’ve taken a few minutes to fix your damn hair, the fans thronging the red carpet try to take your picture because they think you must be someone famous.  Finally, there’s a great party with an open bar and dinner after the screening to say, I guess, “thank you for coming to watch our movie…for free!”  How cool is that?

I remember my first big premiere at the Egyptian Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard, which is incidentally where the tradition originated in 1922 with Douglas Fairbanks’ Robin Hood, but the one I’m talking about was many years later.  I know I look young for my age but that would be pushing it.

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Ashton to Ashes

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES | INDIA FILES

by James Killough

It hasn’t been a good year or so for my ideal younger man, Ashton Kutcher.  This breaks my heart because I do wish him all the best, in a concerned, fatherly way.  First came his split with Demi, then his stint on Two and a Half Men, a show he is being credited with killing, although I see that more as a kindly act of euthanasia; I agree with Charlie Sheen: TAAHM kinda sucks.  Now he has managed to outrage some members of the Indian community by appearing in “brown face” in an ad for PopChips, and he has been roasted alive on Twitter, a social media platform he in no small part helped to build.

This poses something of a conundrum for performers in general and the people who create material for them: at what point does satire become offensive and racist?  Are actors, comedians specifically, only allowed to appear as their race or, in the case of repeat-offender Sacha Baron Cohen, as something other than their real sexuality?

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Supermarket Lagerfeld

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

Ten years or so ago in London, when I was even less self-aware than I am now, I was in the middle of some rant with my friend Ben Ingham when I referred to myself as “slightly eccentric.”  Ben guffawed in a remarkable way, which is saying a lot because he is a consummate hearty guffawer. “‘Slightly eccentric’?  Hah!  You’re barking mad, mate.”

This was the moment I realized that my fascination with mental illness is somewhat self-reverential; I am on a quest to find my own pathology, mainly because I have never been diagnosed with any disorder, but when close friends like Ben say there must be one, there must be one.  I am not a hypochondriac when it comes to physical illness, but I am forever testing myself online for mental ones, and begging passing shrinks for their opinions.  To no avail.

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Imagining Lagerfeld

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.

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Hard To Say I’m Sari

TUTTLE MODE

by James Tuttle | @TuttleMode

Gentle reader,

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?”

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