I made a mistake. Duana and I are working in our hotel room in Banff between meetings. I just made her read James Franco’s new short story, ostensibly about Lindsay Lohan but, really, about how he’s the new Walter Winchell.
What a waste of time, time we don’t really have.
So she’s mad at me. And I don’t blame her.
She’s mad at me because Franco’s writing sucks. I’m mad at me because he’s invoking and imitating Salinger. We’re both mad at me because, God, it’s exactly what he wants. To make us mad. And we allowed it.
But how?
Gossip. Always.
Franco isn’t a poet. Franco’s not an essayist. Franco’s not a great mind. But he is a great gossip. He f-cking loves the gossip. He loves referring to Leonardo DiCaprio’s Pussy Posse (even though Leo has “vigorously denied” that he used to roll that. Please. He still rolls like that.); he loves faux-friending River Phoenix; he loves taking shots at Ryan Gosling and Nicolas Winding Refn, because they won’t invite him to their auteur party; he loves pimping Gucci while talking sh-t about Hollywood, getting paid, getting paid, getting paid.
That’s what he’s serving us – not art, not performance, not creativity. What he’s giving us is GOSSIP. So can we just call him what he is? He’s a gossip. We are all gossips.
Click here to read his piece.
And attached – Lindsay Lohan in London last night. She’s been there for weeks, staying in hotels. Who do you think is bankrolling this? Because it can’t be her. She doesn’t have it.
