Stalkers Anonymous

THE WEEK FROM MY VIEW

by James Killough

It’s one of those gay myths that the more homophobic you are, the more suspect your own sexuality.  I know there are many aspects of gay culture—the rainbow flag, Pride parades, the boom-boom wailing club music, to name a few—that make me want to retch, and often cause me to be adverse to the way we are perceived en masse.  I face the same ridiculous accusations from Gheys as I do from misguided patriots when I object to America’s behavior in the world arena and I’m called anti-American: if you slam gay culture, it’s seen as self-hatred.  Because of course rainbow flags and boom-boom wailing club music are a representation of who I am, and therefore disliking them must mean I dislike myself.  Ho hum.

Daphne Guinness is hardly a new face, she's actually a fashion-scene fixture at this point. I just like this image from Interview, and the fact she's well over 40 and still gets her "Billies" out.

While I do think there might be a kernel of truth about the rabid straight homophobe having issues with his own sexuality, I really hope it is the case for Rick Perry.  As I’ve said before, I think he’s smokin’ hot for an older guy, despite that JFK hair.  He is definitely worthy of being sodomized, over and over.  I can just see him sporting a crew cut, a jockstrap and work boots, and fastened into a sling for a jolly good fisting.

Comic-Con Artist

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

It does pay to read your friends’ spam email blasts, otherwise I wouldn’t have known that my buddy Tristan Eaton was going to be in SoCal doing signings of his book and launching a prototype of his new toy at Comic-Con last weekend.  I’d always wanted to go to Comic-Con, so this was the perfect opportunity to pack a picnic lunch, hop in the train and take myself on an outing, as my mother would call it.

But, James, you ask, aghast.  Why on earth would a modern misanthrope like you want to throw himself into the greatest concentration of unsightly, badly dressed geeks in the galaxy, if not the universe?

Greek revival: Henry Cavill as Theseus in Tarsem Singh's forthcoming "Immortals."

You’re quite right, it was all of the above, and I should have been forewarned.  Before you savage me for being un-glamorous as well as inconsistent, it pays to remember that I’m not the only one with a geek hovering inches beneath my glossy-if-a-bit-tarnished exterior:

Preening Seals on the Beach

I promised you a gratuitously assonant title to make up for all of the wanton alliteration the past few days, so there you have it.  I know you’ve been waiting for it like my nieces on Christmas Eve, peeking at my blog every so often trying to guess what sort of untrustworthy grammatical presents I have wrapped here.

Colin Farrell and his ex, Alicja, in "Ondine," Neil Jordan's film about a drug mule pseudo-selkie. (A selkie is a seal person, like a mermaid with a bark.) Do you think Colin and Alicja's hair had sex with each other when they were sleeping?

How do I really feel about alliteration, you ask, leaning forward with your journalist’s tape recorder to capture my every opinion?  Honestly, I feel it looks great on me, cheap on others.  Seriously, though, I’m not a fan of using alliteration even in my work, unless it’s cheesy Dr. Suess tongue-in-cheek titles, the way I’ve used it so far in the blog titles.  Alliteration is too easy for a writer to fall into; it’s puerile and lazy in a way.  Puerile because it can make a piece sound like an adolescent balancing an eel on his nose to impress a cheerleader.

The Frolic Room, LA's premiere dive bar around the corner form me in Hollywood. But I don't go because I stopped drinking, and lost 12 pounds as a result.

I went to a reading at Book Soup in West Hollywood once, the first time the guest author had read her book out loud.  It was a guidebook to dive bars in LA, so we’re not talking about a Cormac McCarthy reading, here.  I went because I wanted to buy a local high-functioning alcoholic friend of mine the book as a present.  Midway through, the author stopped herself and commented on how stunned she was that she used so many alliterations.  You could tell she was a little embarrassed.  Alliteration is just too Disney to be cool.

Assonance, however, can be the swooning cello reverberating cocoonishly beneath all great prose poetry.  Well, probably poetry in general.

The magical marker Tristan Eaton having a quick doodle on a wall, an experiment in Krink.

My friend, colleague and muse Tristan Eaton started a blog the very same day I did, which is eerie because I consider him to be my spiritual younger brother.  Tristan just dazzles me with his prolificacy, how he can seem to be several places all over the world at once like some character out of Harry Potter, painting murals, sculpting toys, illustrating brands.  I would like to say that Tristan is to images what I am to words in terms of output, but that would be an audacious claim even for this seasoned braggart.

I’m not the only one who thinks Tristan and I are similar.  When I tried to hook him up with my creative partner Rain Li, she said in her mockney Beijing accent, “Why I want to date him fo’?  He look like you.  That would be just too weird, dah-ling.”

I just wish I had Tristan’s hair.