There was a time when the hero detective was at most deeply eccentric; otherwise, he had ardent purpose, he was infallible, he was more brilliant than me or you — it was only a question of when and how he would solve the mystery. That’s not the case any more.
I’m not a scholar of the genre, but it would seem to me that the progenitor of the character was Sherlock Holmes,
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.