by James Killough
In one of the more shameless Hollywood publicity stunts, some genius in the marketing department at Fox Searchlight managed to convince Tina Brown to run a cover story about sex addiction in Newsweek-The Daily Beast in conjunction with the release of Steve McQueen’s Shame. I’m sure Tina’s arm is still hurting from all the twisting it took to get her to agree to this.
The article is, naturally, the top story right now on TDB, rather like how our own Mark Zuckerberg Has A Small Dick refuses to be dislodged from the PFC Top Ten six months after I wrote it. Indeed, today it is number one. This is rather annoying because I don’t consider it to be my best post by any means. The reason for its high ranking is all the pervs out there—why do I keep imagining them to be Pakistani?—Google searching for ‘big penis.’
The brouhaha is, of course, rainmaking on Tina’s part, but I imagine that sex addiction will gain some traction as the new National Guilt, particularly as Shame gains momentum in the Oscar race as potentially the first film with an X/NC-17 rating to win Best Picture since Midnight Cowboy. I haven’t seen it yet so I may change my mind, but I doubt it will get that far. In fact, I hope it doesn’t get that far because I’m deeply envious of Steve McQueen. He’s just too cool for school. Bastard.
Always one to not only spot a trend, but be an integral part of it, Texan comedian Adam Barnhardt said to me last year, “I’m a sex addict, I admit it. But at least I’m not a love addict. They’re the real vampires.” He pronounced it “vampahrs” like a character out of True Blood.
“I’m a love addict,” I shot back. And suddenly I had this massive revelation about my relationship history, which sent me scurrying on a three-month soul-searching mission that began with my immediately breaking it off via email with the guy I was dating at the time, literally five minutes after hanging up with Adam.
“Then you’re a vampahr,” Adam replied simply.
The problem is, I’m not buff enough to be a modern vampire, nor am I a very good addict. I binge, but I’m too vain and self-conscious to get sloppy enough to qualify for a twelve-step, goose-step intervention and internment in a Program. I also think that AA/NA and all the other Programs are religious cults, and I find that distasteful.
In another shameless publicity stunt for her own film, Another Happy Day, the willfully vulgar Ellen Barkin, a.k.a. Ellie From Da Bronx, has begun tweeting. In a little over a month, she has become a Twitter superstar, mostly due to her cougar potty mouth. Her favorite word would appear to be “muthafuckin,” which makes her oh-so-street; however, in my experience she isn’t very that at all. Indeed, in their story about Barkin’s PR coup, Entertainment Weekly wisely called it “her aggressive Twitter persona.”
I’ve only met Barkin briefly a handful of times over the decades, so I can’t claim to know much about her real persona—I have more experience with her ex-husband, Gabriel Byrne—but she appears to be transforming herself into a modern feral Auntie Mame, of which I am something of a connoisseur. The last time I saw her, she was having power tea with a bigger movie star at Norwood Club in New York. At a certain point, she got up, strode across the room in her aggressive heels, the ancient oak wood floors of the club groaning like satisfied masochists with every step, and barked at the waiter, “Excuse me, do you have any splendid?”
Of course, she meant Splenda. But this may account for why she has such a hard time spelling ‘motherfucking.’ Maybe she’s not so much an Auntie Mame as she is a modern Mrs. Malaprop.
In what has to be the most idiotic nanny-state action of any Western country, the British Government banned an ad by the willfully tasteful Miu Miu this week. Apparently this image is suggestive of violence towards young girls, or might entice them to attempt some Perils of Pauline act by strapping themselves to a rail track, no doubt in distress over not being able to afford the clothes or accessories:
The ad would probably run in Vogue Pakistan. Violence against women is de rigeur there, so showing a girl on a railroad track might be seen as an homage to the women who built the country’s rail system while their husbands looked on.
In an even more outrageous nanny-state action, Pakistan has instructed cell phone carriers to ban a list of 1,500 words it finds offensive, which includes ‘Jesus.’ Oh, how the Bible Belt must be sparkin’ their Zippos against the heels of their cowboy boots and eying stacks of Korans over this news. I imagine that ‘motherfucking’ in its proper iteration made the list, as did “flatulence and fondle, flogging the dolphin and headlights.”
Flogging the dolphin? Poor dolphins. In any case, I thought it was “spanking the monkey.” I must be behind the times with the jargon, as always. Must keep following Barkin’s tweets to keep up to date. Or maybe it’s just that Pakistani dicks look and squeak like Flipper.
Oregon is a very weird place, in a good way. On the one hand, it has the Redneck Riviera to its east; on its costal west, it has the anarchic, granola-paved Portland, which The New York Times once said is “where young people go to retire.”
Governor John Kitzhaber has suspended the death penalty for the duration of his term. Right on. Pity he isn’t governor of Texas. His move is apparently in remorse over the execution of two men a decade ago. He called the state’s death penalty scheme “compromised and inequitable,” which is elegant phraseology for something I would say is grossly inhuman and muthafuckin outrageous.
I got back to LA on Wednesday with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. I immediately hit the streets, cruising the narcissists at Trader Joes and waving at the schizos on the street. Outside Ralphs supermarket, a homeless white supremacist stuck like a turd to the sidewalk bellowed, “SUCK MY DICK, NIGGER!’ as I walked past. I didn’t realize I got so tanned in Florida.
It’s so good to be home.
I did walk by a fantastic candidate for Schizo of the Week today, a fine specimen. He was sprawled out on his belly across the sidewalk beside a dusty roller suitcase pretending to read an article about 3D animation in LA Weekly, like he was at home just having had breakfast in bed. Regrettably, PFC rules state any SOTW must agree to have his picture taken, which this candidate didn’t. Either he’s immune to my charms, or he’s been in Hollywood too long to be impressed.
This week’s SOTW is a bit of a cop-out because he only has one of the major symptoms of schizophrenia necessary to qualify: delusion. Bashar Assad is still shrugging off calls from, well, every country in the world including the Arab League for him to step down. Dude, it’s inevitable. How much time do you need to execute electronic money transfers and have the movers pack up the presidential palace? But that’s the problem with dynastic tyrannies: too much loot in the attic.
Another candidate might be former ambassador John Bolton, who wrote in The Daily Beast that Obama doesn’t have what it takes to deal with Syria militarily. In one of the most egregiously specious arguments ever posited by an elderly, half-brained Neo Con, he “paraphrases” Donald Rumsfeld: “we go to war with the president we have.” Rumsfeld, of all people. That slimey sack of shit. Still, the quote is actually “we go to war with the army we have,” which is such a different concept it cannot possibly be construed as paraphrasing.
As Ellie From Da Bronx might tweet, @JohnBolton, you’re a muthafuckin douche.