Hello. I’m James Franco. …Or am I? Yes. …I’m James Franco.
I’m James Franco. The internationally renowned actor, film director, producer, screenwriter, author, painter, and performance artist. I also teach a class at NYU about transferring poetry to film, James Franco-style. Did you know that? …Have you read my critically acclaimed first book of short stories, Palo Alto: Stories by James Franco? I was in Spider-Man 3 and 127 Hours. I’m James Franco. I might be gay or maybe not, because I’m James Franco. I make performance art out of dildos. If you like, you can pay me twenty dollars for a piece of paper describing a piece of art that I have imagined, or, if you’d like to pay $10,000, I will provide you with a lifetime supply of fresh air. For I am James Franco and through me, all is possible.
Whoa, it’s getting kind of Franco all up in here, am I right?
Did you see me hosting the 83rd annual Academy Awards along with Ann Hathaway? …That wasn’t me. I would never host the Academy Awards, c’mon. That was my twin brother, Frames Janco. We’re everything alike, but we have nothing in common. He has a mustache, but I do not. Frames Janco is secretly one of the richest and most evil men in the world, but I am not. I am James Franco, but he is Frames Janco. …Beware. He was thrown in jail in Tennessee. He robs old ladies for their lunch money. Watch out for Frames Janco.
Here’s a poem that I wrote:
ming up his photo shoot’s thesis, Franco added, “Having sex with dolls with plastic dicks is f-cking great, because you get to examine that act without the onus of people just looking at it and saying ‘That’s pornography.'” Thus satisfied th
I AM JAMES FRANCO
…What’s that? An egg.
By the Brothers Boot it smells fresh.
I am James Franco.
I am the alpha and omega.
I am a gnat.
I am the dog urinating in the corner.
I am every god and hero from the first crack of time.
Where I am not, am I not, but when I am not
People should stand with their arms spread wide
Saying “Where’s James Franco?”
And so on.
…How was that? Good, right? Here’s a joke: I’m not really James Franco. My real name is Oliver Miller, and I’m an underemployed writer living in Pennsylvania. I’m 6’1″, 175, blue eyes, red-blond hair. …What’s that that you’re saying. That’s not true? That’s impossible? Anything is possible, or it would be, if I was James Franco.
Hey. Look behind you. No, I promise you that I’m not messing with you. I know that you’re reading this on the computer, but what’s that, right over your shoulder. Behind you. No, seriously, you’ve got to look behind you right now.
Haaa. I was just kidding. There’s nothing behind you. So, anyway, here’s a real joke:
–James Franco is not there, man.
No, but I could never fool you. You saw right through me, didn’t you? I am James Franco. Oliver Miller is an alter-ego who doesn’t exist. He is nothing, I am something. Did you know that I used to date Marla Sokoloff, my co-star from the film, Whatever It Takes? I’m the new face of Gucci. I make performance art out of old episodes of Three’s Company. Some of these things are true, some are not. …To play James Dean, I went from a non-smoker to smoking two packs of cigarettes a day. We’re working on a film made entirely out of my tears. We’re going to press my tears, dry them, and mount them on celluloid. I’m James Franco. Look into my eyes; my dreamy-weamy brown eyes. My hair exists. Would you like to buy some of it, some clippings from my hair? You cannot.
Know that when you lie there, sleeping comfortably in your bed, that I’m out there, somewhere, being James Franco. …I don’t sleep; I can’t sleep. This city needs me. So I’m out there, Franco-ing it up; running over rooftops, running, jumping, stumbling, fighting crime like I only know how. …I’m not the hero you want; I’m the hero you deserve. For I am… James Franco.