Friday, December 3, 2010

127 Hours with James Franco

I received a voice mail recently saying, "I'm watching 127 Hours with James Franco.  It's just gotten to the part where he's sawing his arm off with a dull blade and it reminded me of you."  My mistake here was twofold; enrolling in an improv class, and subsequently giving out my number.  Regardless, it left me wondering: How would I feel after five days with America's indie darling, James Franco?

Like his ambiguously-oriented predecessor, James Dean, Franco became the fascination of my AIM profile nearly a decade ago.  Yet however charming and roguish he was, I couldn't bring myself to trust him.  His cloying smile is precisely the kind that would incite you to go on a rock climbing adventure only to wind up a thrice-limbed freak with PTSD.  His default face is "Cheshire Cat on a heroin jag, right before he throttles you to sell your liver on the black market."  Franco's probably prettier than he is talented, and I can say with total certainty that he would have been a complete asshole to me in high school.  There's no doubt in my mind that he would've called me "Hillshire Farms" in gym only to cheat off me in physics.  And I would have let him.  Every goddam time.  I probably would've called my pillow "Jamie" when I practiced kissing even.  Conflicted.

Luckily I was able to conduct a shorter version of the "127 Hours Hypothesis" during an elevator ride two years ago.  Though Franco only rode to the sixth floor I nearly asphyxiated in the interim.  Within thirty seconds I had devolved from self-satisfied NYU douche to a simpering preteen, my skin temperature increasing dramatically.  As he exited the car I crumpled to the floor, nursing the wounds left by the flock of doves persistently surrounding him.  It was exhilarating, adrenal, and exhausting--but ultimately, more trouble than it was worth.

Sounds like camping to me.

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