I’d like to begin this with a sincere attempt at not apologizing if this sticks a very unfortunate song in your head, but this is my blog, my therapy, and I need to paste it somewhere other than in my head. So, there. Um, yeah.
But since this may not be enough, I drop this into the abyss of my blog as well:
There. All better.
James Franco wrote a book. No, really. I might be imaginative, but even I have my limits. It’s a collection of stories, which I imagine amuse him greatly, and probably only encourage him to think even more highly of himself. No disrespect to Sir James, he was a passable Goblin Jr.–although the self-destructive, delusional, running weed joke that was Pineapple Express stole a bit of my soul before I sent it back to Netflix with a note that said, “No! Bad Netflix!”–but I can’t help imagining him writing this book, pausing at each sentence with that damned half-smirk of his to admire how awesomely awesome it was.
Yeah. That one.
Apparently, according the guru of all things hip and importantly pivotal to a world unprepared to acknowledge his vast and deeply essential understanding of hipness, Russ Marshalek, there is a sentence that reads: “When would things begin mattering? he wondered. Now, now, now.”
Wow. I am sufficiently moved now. And yet, strangely compelled, in that Apocalypse South, kind of way to read this. I may print out the picture above and use it as a bookmark just to be reminded of how awesome Sir James thinks he is, so that I fully appreciate it for myself. Or I might just burn the photo, along with a collection of the movies he’s been in, so that I have enough light to tear out each page as I read it, smother it in mayonnaise, and eat it.
It’s a toss-up.