by James Franco
I had no wolf pack. I was a lone wolf.
Michael Fassbender.
Ryan Gosling.
Alexander Skarsgård.
Jonah Hill.
Balthazar Getty.
Michelle Williams.
Katie Holmes.
Jack Nicholson.
Adam Sandler.
Columbia’s Butler Library, the place where they filmed the beginning of Ghostbusters. The Slimer part. This girl came up to me as I was writing this and just started talking. She was eighteen I guess, a freshman and an art history student. She just wanted to talk to me, and so she did. And she was tired of trying to study, and it was 2:30 in the morning, and she didn’t think that either of us should be studying anymore. And I asked her what she suggested that we do, and she said that we should just sit there and talk, talk, talk, and it didn’t matter what we said, but that we should just talk at each other and then we would get to know each other, and we would share our souls with each other.
I looked at her and I thought she was crazy, but she was also very cute, and I wouldn’t mind getting to know her soul for a minute. Her talking-at-each-other plan actually had some structure. It was more like an improv game.
“So how do we do it?” I said. “I want to get to know your soul.”
“Easy, it’s easy,” she said. “You say something, and then I say something, and then you, and then I, and we just keep going and going, and we’ll get closer and closer to each other, okay?”
“Uh, okay, so, uh, I’ll go,” I said. “I’m Japanese,” I said, even though I am not Japanese. But she didn’t flinch. “I have eaten my panties,” she said.
“I have eaten dog shit,” I said.
“I have eaten dog,” she said.
“I killed a dog.”
“I dated a sociopath, and he killed a person.”
“It was my dad,” I said.
“The person was a baby,” she said.
“My dad was a baby,” I said.
“You are a baby,” she said.
“I’m retarded,” I said.
“You know nothing,”
“I know something.”
“And so do I, you’re going to die,” she said.
“I hope so,” I said.
“When I shit, it is roses,” she said.
“Your asshole is a rose garden,” I said.
“Your dickhole is a guppy.”
“Big vaginas have teeth,” I said.
“I am a shark,” she said.
“I am death,” I said.
“Death the dork,” she said.
“Time.”
“Air.”
“Blood.”
“Wind.”
“Gas.”
“Explosion.”
“Love.”
TRADITION 11
Our public relations policy is based on attraction rather than promotion; we need always maintain personal anonymity at the level of press, radio, films, videos, video games, social networking, and otherwise.
Luciernaga
I LEAVE THE MEETING EARLY and make my way over to S______’s, my realtor’s house. She wants to give me a present for the loft, even though she found it for us a year ago.
S_________ is pretty insane. She wants to fuck. But that means I have to put up with superlong text messages about her strange adventures in Africa. I never take the bait, but she likes to hint that she is involved in international espionage and that she uses sex to lure her subjects. I’m not kidding.
I still have a bunch of her text messages on my phone:
Hey I won’t bug u but if u were serious, text me if u want to get together sometime when u’re back in town. I have an insatiable brain and u do too I know it ;)
… Brilliant; then I will too. Happy Christmas ;-)
(I guess these are the older ones).
Hope to get to know you ;-) Just to let you know, I’m going to South Africa for 3 weeks at the end of the month but not until after the 20th.
Btw, been meaning to tell you, I like your stories. Have lots of ideas about them.
You were in my dream yest + I considered mentioning it to u but thought better of it ;-). See u soon.
Why not tell me???
Well apparently, you already think I’m weird, so nothing to lose there, I suppose…
I had a dream about you.
You were back in Palo Alto and you were talking w/one of my greatest heroes (in real life) who runs a shelter for homeless vets w/addiction probs. Anyway, after u were done talking alone w/him, he told me he thought u were a special guy. I said I didn’t know how I could ever trust u, but he said it’d be ok.
I wrote: My dream was a little different.
I was going to say, then it got erotic but we’ll leave that up to the imagination for the moment. Unless of course you feel like sharing?
You me and the vet guy got down, then I kicked him out. We were at the Franco complex in the LES. Was amazing.
Aww I think you’re underestimating the prowess of the vet guy. Wartime craving, deprivation + all that. Did u really have a dream about me or were u just saying?
Lots of dreams.
Too bad I’m not that kind of girl, then, hmm. You intrigue me luciernaga (sic; autocorrect for “Mr. Franco”?), but not for the reasons you think.
: (
… Oh dear, it’s about the biggest compliment I could give, silly. Of course you’re attractive to me physically, but I’m more of a heart and mind kind of girl. U seem to embody both. I’m not capable of sex for the sake of it. Anyway, you could get that anywhere. Not that you’ve offered! Ha, I overthink everything. I would really like to get to know you. We would hit it off.
… Yes! I hope you like a couple of the places we saw today and yest. Closer to NYU and nice space. Anyway, looking frwd to seeing you.
I was reading one of your stories last night + I came across the part where a character u call Roberto meets 2 girls, gets really high w/them, then finds out one is Vietnamese and adopted and just after we are reminded how high he is, he says, ‘I love adoption.’ I laughed loudly, for like 10 mins. No need to write back just thought it might make u chuckle.
I think I had a typo earlier, that said she was ‘adopted’ but you get the idea. Anyway just felt like sharing xo.
Hey if you’re in town on Thurs and have 10 minutes, I’ll give you a killer birthday present. First I’ll read you my favorite Henry Miller excerpt and follow it w/one big passionate kiss. I could meet you wherever’s convenient. One time offer. Oh and I’m a really good kisser for birthdays…
I guess these texts go a little past the Oscar period, but we’ll just shove them in to give a sense of things.
Her place is cozy. Faded white paint on the outside, crinkling, and inside, wood floors, Indian rugs, and a fireplace. I open her present. It’s a huge framed picture of a white bunny in the snow.
A housewarming gift.
I just wrote a poem that worked out in my head that I’m too vulnerable to hang w/you right now. Much as I’d love to give u your b-day special-i just can’t be one of ‘them’. If u knew me at all it’d be diff’t and I’d love to get to know you but any other agenda will just wreck me right now. The past 6 weeks of travel, my assignment and what I saw… so many women in Thailand prostituting themselves b/c their fisherman husbands were killed in the tsunami and they have 5 mouths to feed after all this time. Nothing sacred left. I can’t go there. What i need is to talk and that was not my proposition. So I don’t see why you would come. Unless you actually care to get to know me, I’ve got nothing for you. You don’t know my other job, but suffice it to say, I’m not all I seem. You’re a busy guy and I don’t want to waste your time. I can’t give you what you want; you can’t give me what I need.
What do you say to a rain check? I hope you have a memorable birthday, my dear. Now you’re Jesus’s age when he died. Could be something special in that! Sorry to be a drag, but truth is truth. So there it is. Hope you understand. XO
G-string. I was supposed to be here last night, but I was at B______’s.
I haven’t yet done anything with S________ , meaning this is the first time (and the only time). I guess that’s why I’m doing the early morning thing. Get in and out, don’t have to spend too much time with the overromanticized version of her life.
Lovely. Trevi fountain’s pretty at night. I’m going to Darfur for a story. I know I may not make it back. Just in case, I wish u all the best, love light peace
I just go for it.
She squirms like crazy. Makes it really fucking hard to lick properly.
Pretty early for all this.
She sits up and is ready to do it for me, but I’m not in the mood anymore. Sometimes it’s difficult the first time with a new person.
She pulls a decorative pillow tight to cover her waist.
She wants to be a journalist. She wants to write.
She has written stories about her uncle, a drunk who raised her. A Massachusetts upbringing.
I’m sorry if I offended you.
Please don’t be offended. It has little to do w/u. You are who you are (not that I really know who that is). I guess I wanted to be ‘that girl’ but when it comes down to it, I’m not. I wish u lots of birthday blessings and hope there’s no hard feelings. XO
It’s fine but I hope you heard what I said. I’m really serious. Also, you could get interrogated just for corresponding w/me, did u know that? Esp since I just got back. And not by the cops, man. Nothing illegal but I’m into some corporate political shit. You should know that w/your career and all. You most likely won’t be bothered b/c I’m pretty well protected but it’s only fair to tell u. Anyway, I SUPPOSE I’ll acquiesce to tmrw at 8:45ish since u twisted my arm. Let’s just keep in touch.
Soon after this, S_____ learned that her uncle was dying of cancer.
So, here’s an honest question for you. No judgment-just asking. Why do you bother w/me, answering my texts, sometimes sending them, etc? Is it just that you find me attractive and want to keep the option open for a potential sex buddy in NYC? You must have plenty of others. You hardly know me at all, so that’s it right?
No, I tried to tell you I’m not just what you think I am. I may be cool and nice and cute or whatever, but I’m fierce and intelligent and demanding, too. I can be tough to deal with. You may not want all that bullshit.
But I’m really fun and don’t get attracted to people until I know them. So that’s where I was coming from.
Btw I’m putting caramel flavored calcium supplements on the giant cookie…
My theory is that most women bore you other than for sex, that you keep pretty closed and trust only a few people, and that as brilliant as you are, to some extent you hide in your literature. Maybe I’m way off but I have put thought into you and your ways and what it must be like to be you.
You’re so bright and talented. What are you looking for in a woman? Don’t you want a challenge or at least an equal? Someone w/some guts and experience, creativity and brains? Maybe you already have it. Anyway, I’m a fireball. If you’re ever feeling adventurous, you know where to look. I’m not going to keep bugging you.
Really? That surprises me. Why else would you want… well anyway, I’m trying to get to know you obviously, w/minimal resources. I guess you want and need low maintenance right now. That makes sense. There must be plenty around. I’m not high maintenance b/c I do my own thing including lots of travel and whatever. I just want real. Are real and serious the same thing? Plus don’t you want a lover who’s smart and interesting to talk to?
At the very least, wouldn’t the sex be way better? Ok, I feel like I’m way out in left field, taking your time, and not your type of gal. It’s time for me to leave you alone. I’m going to delete your number from my phone so I don’t be stupid and hit you up at a weak moment. You know how to find me. XXOO-S
Hey sorry about being all over the place last night. Guess w/my uncle close to dying I’m having a hard time and I’m already at the bus to head to visit him. I really will leave u be. Just was reaching out for support and connection last night in my own f’d up way. Hope u don’t hold it against me. Good luck w/your career. I’m rooting for u always.
Thanks. I’m all a mess b/c he raised me and then didn’t talk to me for years and now there’s all this unfinished business which he won’t talk about. Anyway, thx for understanding. I’m a cool person just going through a thing. Sorry you are there for it. He’s an alc and smoker so kind of did it to himself which is why I don’t really drink. Anyway it’s morning so now I see more clearly and I’m sorry for in some way dragging u into my emotional unrest. I’d hate to never talk to you again but I understand if it’s time to cut it off. Obv I didn’t delete your # yet :)
TRADITION 12
Privacy and reality are the foundations of all our traditions, ever reminding us to place principles before personalities.
The Spider-Man Journals
THE ACTOR’S JOURNALS, if they can be called that—actually a binder of sketchbook pages full of text (written backward) and attempts at portraiture in the style of the Old Masters, obliterated by angry, childlike scratches—have come to be called The Spider-Man Journals, because of the obfuscated subject that peeps through the ragged effacement. Close study will reveal that the effaced depictions are limited to the eponymous hero of the Spider-Man films, and possibly something of The Actor’s own involvement with said subject.
They were found in May 2007 underneath the couch of a Great Western star trailer by an actress, who we will call Cent. She was occupying the trailer at the time for her services on Day’s End, a film about teenage vampires. One might ask how an unknown actress like Cent, on a relatively low-budget production like Day’s End, might come to occupy a trailer of the size usually relegated to someone of The Actor’s stature when acting in a movie the size of Spider-Man 3 (the most expensive movie ever made), and the answer, to be frank, is that Cent, although all of seventeen, was screwing the thirty-eight-year-old producer, Marc Steely.
One spring day on the Sony lot, Cent was doing green-screen shots on Stage 19. After all the post-production work, these green-screen shots would eventually portray Cent’s character, Brie, in a pine tree high above a forest with her character’s new paramour Zed (played by Zack Needly), who was a vampire and, as a result, a cool outsider at the local high school. Between the long lighting setups for these shots, Cent would go back to her large trailer and watch episodes of Lost on DVD, talk on the phone, or read. She was reading The Brothers Karamazov, and she was proud of the fact; she fancied herself a smart, hip girl. During one particularly long lighting setup—they usually take two hours—she was lying on the carpeted trailer floor, casually chatting with her mother. Her mother lived in Austin, and being very religious, had not been informed by Cent of her budding affair with the producer twenty-one years her senior, Marc Steely. Cent looked over and saw a large sketchbook lodged underneath the low couch. Her mother droned on about Cent’s younger brother, Butch, who was once again in trouble with the local authorities—he’d been caught performing some sort of Satanic ritual at midnight at Austin High, involving the immolation of two rabbits. Cent retrieved the sketchbook from under the couch. On the phone she heard pieces of her brother’s story. The cops had been abusive and called him a faggot. He had convinced Cent’s mother to fight the burglary, animal cruelty, and public endangerment charges on account of police brutality. But Cent was too busy examining the sketchbook to respond. Then in the middle of her mother’s monologue, Cent said, “It’s like Leonardo.”
“What is?”
“Nothing, Mom. I’m going to have to call you back, they’re calling me to set.”
Cent hung up and continued perusing the sketchbook. She handled it gently, as it was loosely connected in places. At first it was difficult to decipher anything in the scribbled mess: She could see that there were drawings beneath the scribbles, and there was mirror writing in the manner of Da Vinci’s sketchbo
oks, albeit in much cruder letters than the master’s elegant reversed Florentine script. After poring through the twenty-six pages of violent scribbles, Cent took the sketchbook into the trailer’s small bathroom (small, but larger than the one she would have had had she not been involved with the thirty-eight-year-old, balding Marc Steely) and held the first page up to the vanity. Even when the script was oriented to read left to right, it was difficult to make sense of. The individual letters were barbed and broken, and the lines were irregularly slanted and often obscured by the aggressive scribbles that shot across the page in great jagged arcs that spun into intense vortices. The easiest line to make out was on the first page. It was repeated three times, in three different sizes, in hot blue ink. It was the old Greek imperative, exploited by Freud, and known to Cent through the howling Doors anthem “The End,” which she had heard while watching Apocalypse Now repeatedly with her dad as a child, before he skipped town for good.
Kill the Father, it said.
Beneath the violent refrain were less discernable lines, as well as the remnants of a portrait, almost totally obscured by the scribbling. All she could make out was the chin, the left nostril, and the outside corner of the left eye.
Later that day, Cent told Marc Steely about the sketchbook. Being the ever-paranoid older lover, Marc was immediately suspicious of the sketchbook. He asked to see it, and on the first page he saw the triply stated imperative written in reverse, Kill the Father.
That couldn’t be good in any context, but especially not with the accompaniment of psychotic scrawls. And written in reverse! That was the way that the devil wrote. When Marc asked for the pages, Cent refused.
