You are, at times, an inspired writer and obviously, within the Hollywood internet realm, a famous (or infamous) personality, your fame reaching all the way to London (evidenced by that July 20011 article by the Guardian‘s Tim Adams). But last night, again, you degraded Hollywood Elsewhere by taking a dump on the carpet with your pathetic, infantile, self-pitying sexual melancholia.
Imagine having a party at your home and an exceptionally bright and interesting guest — a friend, in fact — comes over and gets drunk and moons the guests and vomits all over the floor and then leaves. And then you have another party and he comes by and does the same thing again. And again. And again. Honestly, how would you feel? And how would you respond after the eleventh or twentieth vomit-splat?
In the early 1940s Jackson Pollock urinated into the fireplace at a party thrown by Peggy Guggenheim. Yes, she forgave him and supported him after that, but you are not Jackson Pollock and I am not Peggy fucking Guggenheim. And I am not going to buy you the services of a prostitute. I tried to instigate a reader donation fund to give you a weekend at Heidi Fleiss‘s Space Alien cathouse in Nevada, but no one bit and that’s the end of it.
18 months ago I wrote that “the coarseness [and] the self-pity…have to be turned down. Way down. I’m not trying to be Ms. Manners. But there finally has to be an emphasis on perception and love and passion and the glories of good writing. There has to be an emphasis on letting in the light rather than damning the darkness.”
Do this one more time and I will ban you from Hollywood Elsewhere for life. That means you can sign back in under another name and I will erase you again. And again. As long as you want to play this game, I will block you and block you and block you. This is really, really it on my end.
Stop drinking, for Chrissake! PLEASE! I have recently and I feel great. And stop eating dairy and breads and cheese dogs and Fettucine Alfredo and cheeseburgers and ice cream and Danish pretzels. “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.” And lift weights and get some running or walking in every day. And show some balls and write your own column, which I said I’d let you have on the site. And then save some money and fly to Prague for a hair-plug operation. And oh, yeah…STOP DRINKING.
And stop wearing gray cross-training lace-up shoes. When we met at Mel’s Drive-In that one time I gulped when I saw you in those effing things. I knew then and there that you were (a) having problems in life and (b) would continue to have problems in life. Because no one with the slightest sense of style and/or self-respect wears gray cross-training shoes.