A while back, Lindsay Lohan’s “sex list” was leaked, and James Franco’s name was on it. He denied it pretty quickly, which any sane person would do whether or not it was true. Lohan never confirmed or denied any of the guys on her list because she’s saving that interview for a future time in which she’s hurting for rent money.
But it seems Franco is REALLY desperate for everyone to believe that his dick never touched Lindsay, so he took his denial to a weird, hipster level by writing a short story. Glad he found time in between picking up teenagers on Instagram and stealing other people’s artwork to write such an incredible piece of trash.
Someone at Vice has a sick sense of humor, because they decided to indulge James Franco’s narcissism by encouraging his “deepness” and letting him write a short story for them. Franco entitled it “Bungalow 89″ and it’s a really fucking weird retelling of how Lindsay Lohan stalked his dick, with snippets about other movies and actors thrown in. Name dropping at its hippest.
Now, for a short story, this thing is really fucking long. And outside of the Lohan bits, totally uninteresting. The believable parts are that Lindsay hunted him down like a free bag of coke and wouldn’t let go. The unbelievable parts are where Franco claims he never slept with her, only read her JD Salinger like the 15 year old emo freshman that he truly believes he is. Those are the only parts I’ll quote, because they are the only parts I give a damn about.
There was a Hollywood girl staying at Chateau Marmont. She had gotten a key to my room from the manager. I heard her put the key into my front door and turn it, but I had slid the dead bolt and that thing—I don’t know what you call it; it’s like a chain but made of two bars—that kept the door from opening.
She said, “James, open the door.”
Across the room was a picture of a boy dressed as a sailor with a red sailor cap, and except for his blondish hair (closer to my brother’s color) he looked like me.
She said, “Open the door, you bookworm punk blogger faggot.”
Well, isn’t that just the most eloquent thing to ever come out of that orange streaked face? How can we believe Franco didn’t immediately drop trou and hit that shit.
My phone rang. She let it ring until I answered.
“You’re not going to let me sleep, are you?”
“Do you think this is me? Lindsay Lohan. Say it. Say it, like you have ownership. It’s not my name anymore.”
“I just want to sleep on your couch. I’m lonely.”
“We’re not going to have sex. If you want to come in, I’ll read you a story.”
“A bedtime story?”
“It’s called ‘A Perfect Day for Bananafish.’”
Do you think I’ve created this? This dragon girl, lion girl, Hollywood hellion, terror of Sunset Boulevard, minor in the clubs, Chateau Demon? Do you think this is me?
I love how he is already throwing his hands up, like “Yo don’t look at me, this bitch was crazy when I met her.”
She knocked on the door. She was in her pajamas. She had bare feet.
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.
Lindsay knows nothing about a nagging mother. Nope nope nope. And what’s with this “let’s call this girl Lindsay” shit? Franco already called her out by name. Pshhh.
Now we were lying in bed. I wasn’t going to fuck her. She had her head on my shoulder. She started to talk. I let her.
“Before things got bad, I was in New York for the premiere of a film I did with Robert Altman and Meryl Streep. After the movie I took James Franco and Meryl’s two young daughters to the club du jour, Bungalow 8, in the Meatpacking District. It was my place. All my friends were there: school friends, my mother looking her slutty best, bodyguards, and Greeks. We had our own table in the corner, our own bottle.
“I took two Oxycontins and things got bad. The DJ was this bearded dude named Paul. I remember requesting Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believin’.’ I remember sitting back down, and I remember trying to speak up, to talk to that cute boy in a red gingham shirt, James.”
Lindsay then talks about mirrored bathrooms and watching yourself fuck. Also bitches at James for not doing her then. She ended up banging some Greek dude then, “a big-schnozzed, big-dicked, drunk motherfucker.” She called it the best night of her life.
Franco then tries to muster up sympathy for poor Lohan, mulling over the fact that she craves attention, and since she gets it for being both good and bad, how is she supposed to care which?
Instead of fucking her, I read her a short story about a neglected daughter.
Where is this dude’s Academy Award, Pulitzer, and Nobel Peace Prize? He deserves all the awards, for not only writing this masterpiece, but for GETTING Lohan. Really getting her. If you have 10 minutes and about 4000 brain cells to kill, you can head over to Vice’s website to read the entire thing. It’s really too bad they aren’t doing another season or Lindsay’s reality show. This would make for some epic episodes.