James Franco: More Creative Than We Ever Credited Him For
Just when you thought you were never going to get the juicy alleged story about Lindsay Lohan ostensibly trying to ride more than James Franco's motorcycle, James himself comes out with a pretty attention-grabbing (and well-written) story about living at West Hollywood's Chateau Marmont during house renovations and encountering a starlet named "Lindsay," a child star more famous for her legal troubles and partying antics than for her actual body of work ... and it is pretty fabulous.
Check out a few choice excerpts from James' "Palo Alto" story, "Bungalow 89":
"I ran my fingers through her hair and thought about this girl sleeping on my chest, our fictional Hollywood girl, Lindsay. What will she do? I hope she gets better. You see, she is famous. She was famous because she was a talented child actress, and now she’s famous because she gets into trouble. She is damaged. For a while, after her high hellion days, she couldn’t get work because she couldn’t get insured. They thought she would run off the sets to party. Her career suffered, and she started getting arrested (stealing, DUIs, car accidents, other things). But the arrests, even as they added up, were never going to be an emotional bottom for her, because she got just as much attention for them as she used to get for her film performances. She would get money offers for her jailhouse memoirs, crazy offers. So how would she ever stop the craziness when the response to her work and the response to her life had converged into one? Two kinds of performance, in film and in life, had melted into one."
Fictional Lindsay? Pish posh. That's all.
Check this part out:
Now we were lying in bed. I wasn’t going to f--k her. She had her head on my shoulder. She started to talk. I let her.
“Before things got bad, I was in New York for the premiere of a film I did with Robert Altman and Meryl Streep. After the movie I took James Franco and Meryl’s two young daughters to the club du jour, Bungalow 8, in the Meatpacking District. It was my place. All my friends were there: school friends, my mother looking her slutty best, bodyguards, and Greeks. We had our own table in the corner, our own bottle.
“I took two Oxycontins and things got bad. The DJ was this bearded dude named Paul. I remember requesting Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believin’.’ I remember sitting back down, and I remember trying to speak up, to talk to that cute boy in a red gingham shirt, James.
“I was slurring. My words rolled around and got sticky and didn’t come out.
“My friend from school kept talking to him, trying to be cute, but she was only there because of me. I told Barry, my bodyguard, to take her away from our table. And he banished her.
“I took James back to the bathroom. ‘You know why Amy put mirrors all around in here?’ I said.
“‘So that you can watch yourself f--`k.’
“He didn’t f--k me, that s--t. And what was he doing there anyway? On my night. My night with Meryl, my night when everything was right, when I got everything I wanted. Almost.
“I f--ked one of the Greeks instead: a big-schnozzed, big-d--ked, drunk motherf--ker. We did it in the bath. That was the best night of my life.”
Then she fell asleep.Yeah, that all sounds about right. Welcome to the world of the "private" fictional character invented by James' analytical mind, "Lindsay" -- it's amazing how life imitates art and imitates something else that we're not even sure exists.
This, in itself, is pure wizardry. How'd we ever miss it before?