#4

I saw my apartment in an action movie the other day, right behind a half-naked anorexic assassin and her unwitting protege. And I kind of liked that--the unwitting protege used my ATM, he stooped to tie his shoe on my stoop!--so I started crashing movie sets and impersonating a set dresser. So far, Angelina Jolie has simulated intercourse with Antonio Banderas on my 500-thread-count sheets, at least one of the Olsen Twins has blown-dry their hair with my blow dryer and when Haley Joel Osment found the water-logged photo album that revealed his true paternity in that stump in that one movie, the photo on the second to last page was--wait for it--my sister's fuckin' third birthday party. BAM.

I mean, I've never really had any designs on fame, and I'm about 90% sure that the ozone layer will implode sooner rather that later and fuck whatever half-sentence I've got in the annals of human history. But Mary Kate and Haley Joel and all of them, they're gonna go too, and who do you think the Martians that harvest our half-incinerated celluloid will give a shit about? The squawky little blond getting her throat torn out by a zombie front and center? Or the subliminal message in the dust cloud, the suicidal flying monkey's corpse hanging off the light rig in the background, my toaster oven, bathrobe, and if I get ballsy, my naked blur, a flash so small that there must, there just must be a reason why universe remembered it?

Photo is Denis Darzacq, again