For someone who didn’t have sex with Lindsay Lohan, freaky geek James Franco is certainly fascinated with having sex with Lindsay Lohan. On top of his ostensible day job as an actor (he’s going to be in over 12 MOVIES this year), Franco has dicknosed his way into the literary field, too — he’s a published author, and yesterday, a piece of his, entitled “Bungalow 89,” was on the cocaine minefield that is Vice. It’s apparently fiction, except for the times when he refers to a “Hollywood girl” as “Lindsay.”
Once upon a time a guy, a Hollywood guy, read some Salinger to a young woman who hadn’t read him before. Let’s call this girl Lindsay. She was a Hollywood girl, but a damaged one. I knew that she would like Salinger, because most young women do. I read her two of the Nine Stories, “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” and “For Esmé — with Love and Squalor.” “Bananafish” was great because it has a nagging mother on the other end of the phone line, nothing like Lindsay’s real mother, but still, the mother-daughter thing was good for her to hear. And there’s the little girl in the story, Sibyl, and the pale suicide, Seymour, who kisses her foot and talks about bananafish with her, those fantastic phallic fish who stick their heads in holes and gorge themselves—it should be called “A Perfect Day for Dickfish” — and then, bam, he shoots himself. (Via)
Woah, like, deep, man.
For nine months, while they fixed my house, I was staying in the bungalows. First in 82, next to the little Buddha in the long, trickling fountain. Lindsay Lohan was there too. The Chateau was her home, and the staff were her servants. She got my room key. One night she came in at 3 AM. I woke up on the couch, trying not to look surprised. Instead of f*cking her, I read her a short story about a neglected daughter.
Franco’s fiction is on the level of every oversensitive essay I heard read out loud in my freshman year creative writing course. It’s no wonder he likes to get friendly with teenage girls.