After denying it adamantly and telling Howard Stern about her stalker tendencies, he’s gone out of his way to bring it up again, this time in an article on Vice where he describes the time he read Nine Stories to her for no apparent reason besides that he wanted his name to be mentioned in the same breath as J.D. Salinger’s.
Here’s every namedrop and movie mention, so you can get an idea of just how ADD he is:
Leo DiCaprio, Lukas Haas, My Own Private Idaho, Kurt Cobain, Rebel Without a Cause, Gus Van Sant, Titanic, Martin Scorsese, River Phoenix, Witness, Harrison Ford, Buffalo ’66, Woody Allen, Christian Bale, Spring Breakers, Harmony Korine, David Blaine, American Psycho, Andy Kaufman, Milk, Keanu Reeves, Nicolas Winding Refn, Drive, Cher, Burlesque, Terry Richardson, Meryl Streep, Buddha. (The worst part is, I left quite a few out.)
He claims Lindsay crept into his room at Chateau Marmont one night because she was lonely and that he ran his fingers through her hair after she passed out with her head on his chest which honestly makes him just as weird as her.
For nine months, while they fixed my house, I was staying in the bungalows. First in 82, next to the little Buddha in the long, trickling fountain. Lindsay Lohan was there too. The Chateau was her home, and the staff were her servants. She got my room key. One night she came in at 3 AM. I woke up on the couch, trying not to look surprised. Instead of fucking her, I read her a short story about a neglected daughter.
She opens the door to his hotel room part way and calls him a “bookworm punk blogger faggot” and he proceeds to tell her to they won’t be having sex. Instead, he will be performing A Perfect Day for Bananafish and For Esmé—with Love and Squalor.
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.
“I was slurring. My words rolled around and got sticky and didn’t come out.
“My friend from school kept talking to him, trying to be cute, but she was only there because of me. I told Barry, my bodyguard, to take her away from our table. And he banished her.
“I took James back to the bathroom. ‘You know why Amy put mirrors all around in here?’ I said.
“‘So that you can watch yourself fuck.’
“He didn’t fuck me, that shit. And what was he doing there anyway? On my night. My night with Meryl, my night when everything was right, when I got everything I wanted. Almost.
“I fucked one of the Greeks instead: a big-schnozzed, big-dicked, drunk motherfucker. We did it in the bath. That was the best night of my life.”
Then she fell asleep.
Oh. My. God. I know good storytelling requires a bit of embellishment but this is ridiculous. If he was any more full of crap he’d be an ostomy bag.