You are James Franco, regular human, leaning against the wall at a houseparty. You, James Franco, hollow cheeks covered in stubble, star of the film "Pineapple Express," are grinding your molars to the beat of Nicki Minaj's "Anaconda," which blares from subpar speakers. This will be a fun party. This will be an inspiring party. You have already written the host, on her bathroom mirror, a limerick about how actually smart she is. She will really like it.
You, the squinty-eyed sculptor and former host of the Oscars telecast, scan the room for interesting people. You are interested in interesting things, and you, James Franco, are also pretty interesting. You don't think you're as interesting as, say, William T. Vollmann, but who is? No one. That's why you're working on a trilogy of short vignettes about him, starring you. Probably.
You walk yourself, five feet eleven inches tall and pale, toward the host's record collection. You pick up a Daft Punk album and run your fingertips over the cover. You prefer Solange Knowles, who is not returning your texts.
You remember that this morning you awoke to notice that the light was optimal for a photo of your face and bare chest. You, director of critically acclaimed films and owner of the Instagram account @jamesfrancotv, rested your phone on your upper torso and clicked the shutter three times. Such gestures are intimacy. Also: art. You hope that tomorrow you'll wake up next to someone nice.
Why wouldn't you? After all, you always have before, except for Ashley, who thought you overused the word "Kafkaesque." But she was wrong, which you explained.
Just kidding—no hard feelings, Ashley. In fact, you even wrote a short story about her. It's called "Ashley," and it's fiction.
You consider the rest of the house as the party swells. The kitchen, the pool, the bedrooms, even the hallway present possibilities—any room could receive a visit from James Franco. You consider how rooms are like artistic mediums in that way, and like life, for that matter.
Last Thursday, you made a macaroni diptych of Seamus Heaney. It will appear at a pop-up pavilion at Art Basel sponsored by a designer-drone company.
Look! There's a dog with a cone around its neck. You wonder how your voice would sound through a paper cone, and whisper a Voice Memo: "paper-cone concept album." The press will run reviews questioning its artistic merit, and not reviews reviewing you, philanthropist and onetime "General Hospital" character.
You glide through the crowd, buoyed by several shouts of "Hey, man!," to find a drink. You grin. The eyes of the randoms widen when they realize who you are, which is pretty awkward—celebrity is insane and a total construct. It's challenging. But you're not complaining. Why would you? Everything's great. You have literally never been told to keep your clothes on.
What if you studied choreography? You could do a ballet about celebrity, which is something people don't understand. And Lana Del Rey could narrate. Do ballets have narration? This one will. You could probably learn to sashay decently, and you'd get to wear a leotard, which is sexy, and also FUNNY. Once, when he was really high, Seth Rogen told you that sexy-funny was your thing. You never forgot that. Love Seth Rogen.
Wait, that girl over there. You like her sort of Catherine Deneuve vibe, or maybe it's more Sienna Miller—less cool but . . . those bangs. Great smile. Maybe she'll fall in love with you. Maybe you could love her and she'll have this great laugh, a show-stopping laugh, and cool thoughts, a good family, and she'll get you! Maybe. Maybe. Art is very subjective.
