Scarlett Rouge Porn Star

SCARLETT’S LETTERS: The 3 Faces of Me

Dear James —

What’s that game when you create your porn identity by adding the name of your first pet with the first street you lived on? Mine would be Milky Spring. Quite hot and pretty appropriate. Really the joke’s on me; I can thank my bohemian parents for already providing a perfect porno name in case I was so inclined to follow a calling in the sexual arts.

Karl Lagerfeld Quentin Tarantino

EXCLUSIVE: Lagerfeld Pitches Script to Tarantino

I have done it! I have pulled it off! I am a hit!

How do I know? Vogue says so. WWD says so.

It’s true that Chanel, the maison de couture for which I design, is one of the few remaining big advertisers in fashion. Therefore, all the important publications are my bitches. Big deal! The fact remains that I have reinvented haute couture. How? With the sneaker.

Yes, the common sneaker used for cardio training, which as you know I don’t advocate because it makes you hungry, and being hungry makes you fat, like Adele. But if you are buying the Chanel couture sneaker you won’t be running around a bigger space than your closet. Okay, okay, maybe your bedroom, or an art gallery. If the normal Chanel prêt-a-porter sneaker starts at $600…

Scared Shitless — Confessions of a Butch Pussy

I admit it: Most of my life I was a fraidy-cat, a panicked pickle, a serving of yellow-belly sashimi.

Not any more, for some reason. Something happened in early middle age: I stopped running and turned around to face my fears and went, “Boo, yourselves!” and they vanished, as specters of all kinds are wont to do when confronted.

Fear isn’t always unpleasant. There are entire recreational industries devoted to people tempting danger for the adrenaline rush. There are even professions that thrive on the natural high that comes from flirting with disaster: the armed forces, the stock exchange, Somali piracy.

Remembrances of a Terrible Ghey

For the past few weeks I’ve been living in the Boystown area of West Hollywood, better known as Weho, an unintentional misnomer for the neighborhood; I’m sure it’s been observed before that BigHo might be more appropriate. This is a temporary arrangement that will likely last the rest of the summer, which we don’t mean the same way in Los Angeles. It’s been observed before by anyone who’s ever set foot in Southern California that we don’t really have seasons, rather three stages of the year that might be titles taken from a Gershwin songbook:

Karl Lagerfeld

Imagining Lagerfeld: Symposium in the Sex Shop

Whenever the Paris collections roll around, I’m reminded I haven’t touched base with my imaginary best friend, Karl Lagerfeld.  As some readers may recollect, he and I have had our discussions—none of which have ended well, sadly—first over a gourmet sandwich, then at rock-n-roll Ralphs in Hollywood (during which he tried to brain me with a canister of Ajax), and over a workout at Golds Gym

Why Sterling Archer Is My New Straight Boyfriend

I guess I have a bit of explaining to do.  Given that PFC’s demographic apparently skews thirty to forty-five, most of our readers might not be aware of the salty adult animated comedy series Archer currently in its fourth season on FX. (‘Salty’ is my new favorite adjective since our contributor Eric Baker referred to this site that way as a warning to the readers of his own blog before linking them here.) 

Tom of Finalnd

EXCLUSIVE: Tarantino Making Movie About Gheys & AIDS

In an appearance on an Australian radio broadcast the other day while promoting his Django Unchained downunder, Quentin Tarantino made a surprise announcement, which perhaps wasn’t so surprising for those of us who saw the obvious trajectory of his self-consciously subversive movies.  QT, as he is known to Scientologists who still hope to bring him into the fold, was making this appearance on a station notorious for causing a nurse to kill herself after they prank-called her while she was caring for the Duchess of Cambridge.  His goal? 

Imagining Lagerfeld: “There Is No Excuse for Fat.”

“This is absolutely ridiculous!” huffed my imaginary best friend Karl Lagerfeld when I conjured him up to meet me for a workout at Golds Gym Hollywood this afternoon.  I immediately thought he was pissed because of the outfit I’d dressed him in: little black tennis shorts, knee-high white socks, black patent leather Nike high tops, a tight white tee shirt with CHANEL emblazoned across the chest in black, and of course his signature black aviator sunglasses.

“Sorry,” I said.  “I thought you would feel comfortable like that.  Much more showy than a tracksuit.  Or is it too showy?”

Supermarket Lagerfeld

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.

Karl Lagerfeld Sunglasses

Imagining Lagerfeld

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.