We may have to start a James Franco watch to chronicle the weird ass adventures of James “Wizard of both Oz and sleeping in NYU lectures” Franco. For James' 35th birthday, he not only published his ridiculous list of random information which he called a poem from his 31st birthday for Huff Post Entertainment (see below for full lyrical prose), but he also got an S&M theme cake complete with a huge dick on the top of it. As if his creepy facial hair wasn't enough reason to keep him away from your children, the Spring Breakers star looks like he's trying to get in character for some masochistic 70's porn shoot. Chill with all the dicks Jimmy, you're fucking scaring us. On the other hand, I think he and Mandy Bynes would have a really great dinner date if someone wants to arrange that shit.
Source: Huffington Post
It was birthday thirty-one
I was in Suffolk, Virginia, directing
A short film called Herbert White.
We stayed at the Hilton Gardens,
The only hotel in town,
The rest are motels, rented monthly.
There are no restaurants, but plenty of strip malls,
Prefabricated houses and little swamps;
People sit in their cars in gas-station lots
And eat and smoke.
This is eating out in Suffolk.
The actor that fucks a goat in my film
Was home-schooled because his parents didn't
Want him to be subjected to drugs, guns and violence.
“And blacks,” I think.
Indian River, the school is called.
Tyrone is his name, a handsome, dumb-faced kid.
There were baby goats; they ran around their pen on stiff, stumpy legs.
I've had good and bad birthdays.
And boy do they make me think
About when I was younger,
When I had no friends and my mom drove me to school
Because I lost my license drunk-driving, and we wouldn't talk,
We would listen to Blonde on Blonde
Every morning, and life was like moving through something
Thick and gray that had no purpose.
And now I see that everything has had as much purpose
As I give it, or at least it can all make its way
Into my poem and become something else,
And in that way all that shit, and all those bad birthdays,
And the good ones are markers in an anniversary line –
And they carry less and less of their original pain,
And become emptier, just markers really, building blocks,
To be turned into constructions and fucked with.