Today is my last day with James Franco. After almost 12 years of following his every move slavishly — first in that James Dean movie, then on reruns of Freaks and Geeks, then in all sorts of movies and, above all, magazine articles and Internet chat rooms — I believe I have lived with him long enough to understand his culture and his identity. And I can honestly say that the environment of James Franco Obsession now is as toxic and destructive — to me, personally — as it could possibly be.
To put the problem in the simplest terms, the interests of the obsessive entertainment writer (which is to say, me) continue to be sidelined in the way James Franco goes about his business (which is to say, in the manner that best serves his interests). James Franco is one of the world’s most important actor–writer–producer–artist–supermodel-thingamabobs, and he is too integral to my mental health to continue to ignore me.
Has he called me once since gay marriage was legalized in New York State? No, he has not. While it is true that he has never called me a “muppet,” the sad truth is that he has never called me at all. In fact, I have reason to believe that he doesn’t know I exist.
It’s all give, give, give. When is it my turn to take? Does Jibby have any moral compass at all? Surely he understands that I, like hundreds of other people who write about movies for newspapers, magazines, and blogs, have obsessive needs that are every bit as valid as his.
Why, it’s been days — entire days — since Jib-Jib released a new movie, or published a short story, or installed some sort of art project somewhere, or made an ironic public appearance, or did anything worth writing about. Am I supposed to sit around here waiting? How does he expect me to keep this relationship going?
And although it’s hard to believe, it’s true that sometimes the waiting time is even longer before photographs of him begin to speak to me, in that special voice he would reserve for me alone, if indeed he ever spoke to me, or knew who I was.
It might sound surprising to a skeptical public, but character really does count; it was always a vital part of Jib-Jib’s success. It wasn’t just about being famous; this alone will not sustain an artist for so long. He revolved around weird career choices which I could analyze and explicate at length (Tristan + Isolde? Really? Marilyn Monroe drag at the Oscars? Are you serious?), not to mention a dreamy smile I could get lost in. I am sad to say that I look around today and see virtually no trace of the cult of personality that made me love this celebrity for many years.
Clearly now I need to turn my attentions elsewhere. But where can I find an intelligent, multi-talented, disarmingly charming actor to obsess over? One who got his start in a sitcom, say, and who attended at least one of my alma maters? One who makes the occasional blockbuster but who reveals his true artistry in quirky, often homo-friendly, small, independent movies? Maybe even one who speaks French?
NOTE TO JIB-JIB: Of course you know I’m just kidding, darling. Call me!
To put the problem in the simplest terms, the interests of the obsessive entertainment writer (which is to say, me) continue to be sidelined in the way James Franco goes about his business (which is to say, in the manner that best serves his interests). James Franco is one of the world’s most important actor–writer–producer–artist–supermodel-thingamabobs, and he is too integral to my mental health to continue to ignore me.
Has he called me once since gay marriage was legalized in New York State? No, he has not. While it is true that he has never called me a “muppet,” the sad truth is that he has never called me at all. In fact, I have reason to believe that he doesn’t know I exist.It’s all give, give, give. When is it my turn to take? Does Jibby have any moral compass at all? Surely he understands that I, like hundreds of other people who write about movies for newspapers, magazines, and blogs, have obsessive needs that are every bit as valid as his.
Why, it’s been days — entire days — since Jib-Jib released a new movie, or published a short story, or installed some sort of art project somewhere, or made an ironic public appearance, or did anything worth writing about. Am I supposed to sit around here waiting? How does he expect me to keep this relationship going?
And although it’s hard to believe, it’s true that sometimes the waiting time is even longer before photographs of him begin to speak to me, in that special voice he would reserve for me alone, if indeed he ever spoke to me, or knew who I was.It might sound surprising to a skeptical public, but character really does count; it was always a vital part of Jib-Jib’s success. It wasn’t just about being famous; this alone will not sustain an artist for so long. He revolved around weird career choices which I could analyze and explicate at length (Tristan + Isolde? Really? Marilyn Monroe drag at the Oscars? Are you serious?), not to mention a dreamy smile I could get lost in. I am sad to say that I look around today and see virtually no trace of the cult of personality that made me love this celebrity for many years.
Clearly now I need to turn my attentions elsewhere. But where can I find an intelligent, multi-talented, disarmingly charming actor to obsess over? One who got his start in a sitcom, say, and who attended at least one of my alma maters? One who makes the occasional blockbuster but who reveals his true artistry in quirky, often homo-friendly, small, independent movies? Maybe even one who speaks French?
NOTE TO JIB-JIB: Of course you know I’m just kidding, darling. Call me!
Hilarious. You deserve some sign from Jib-Jib for this masterpiece.
ReplyDeleteu had me worried for a second.
ReplyDelete