Here is an article written by Kevin Smith. The beginning is all that really matters but I posted the rest just in case you had time to kill. I'm not saying it fact or fiction I'm just saying it's interesting.
Kevin Smith - Just another opinionated asshole
My Ultimate Sell-Out (Arena 125 08/02)
Having given in to family pressure and moved to Los Angeles, the perennial "Indie Film-maker" has found he's privy to more information than he bargained for.
One of the best/worst things about being in the movie biz is the inside poop you get on the stars who shell out so much of their multi-millions to spin doctors and flacks whose sole reason for being is to keep their clients' images squeaky clean and far from scandal, so that audiences will continue to drive the box office of their movies (not to mention their ever increasing paychecks) toward figures so high that they rival the entire fiscal budget of the state of Rhode Island, if not New Jersey. The moment you get your foot into Tinseltown's door, you're informed of all manner of movie star debauchery that makes tha tabloid stuff seem church bulletin-ish in comparison.
For example, in the last week alone, I've been tipped off by several credible sources that the up-and-coming (some would say, already there) macho action star who looks like he's all about the pussy is apparently really, really gay. In the constantly shifting terrain of sexual identity that even non-Hollywood America finds itself grappling with, though, that's hardly shocking. Surprising, yes - considering this is a guy who's probably got every 15-20-year-old girl (hell, even their mothers) salivating over the thought of having the dude's huge biceps crushing their midriffs as he works their nipples while going down on them. But shocking? C'mon - cock-chugging (either by men or women) is a Hollywood standard, really. Just as when you go to Philadelphia, you're supposed to at least try a Cheese-Steak sandwich, when you arrive in Los Angeles, you're almost expected to sample a stiff one in the mouth.
For shocking, you have to go to the really unpleasant bit of info I was fed recently (which so filled me up, I was able to pass on the stiff one altogether), regarding one of this country's greatest living actors. Word on the street is he likes to lay under glass tables and watch women pinch out loafs while he jerks off. That, as they say, takes the cake. Or the brownie, in this case.
What is it about Hollywood that brings out the Salo in the rich & famous? Largely, this is the kind of behaviour that you only hear about actors, not actresses, partaking in. And in the bizzarely backwards politically correct atmosphere of the early 21st century, I know you're supposed to credit women with being just as perverse and sexually deviant as men, but let's face it - not only are actresses too busy vomiting up every meal, stapling their stomachs shut and having the top five layers of their skin acid-burned off to maintain some semblance of their youthful appearance - but also, women are generally far too sensible to be even remotely curious about what it looks like at the exhaust end of some dude when he opens up his brown eye and dirty-winks at them.
So it's the insanely successful actors who have the most outlandish kinks, and one can only wonder how they find themselves so sexually jaded that only a Stinkin'-Log will help them raise the barn. Is it that when you're able to fuck and suck every gorgeous woman on the planet, it gets a little old? Is it kind of like being fed every type of succulently prepared entree, hand-crafted by the world's finest chefs, for a year straight, and then growing so weary of it that suddenly, you feel compelled to see what dog food tastes like? Is the culture of celebrity so permissive that even fecal antics aren't really pushing the edge of the envelope anymore? And what's the next step toward the carnal abyss for these guys, most of them husbands and fathers? Cat asses? Corpse fucking? Jerking off to mid-plastic surgery images of Joan Rivers?
These were the questions I asked myself before I decided to move to Hollywood.
As of January this year, I packed up the family and headed west, which is something I never... NEVER... thought I'd do. I was born and raised in New Jersey, and have been able to stay there through the first (and probably final, once this nearly-name-dropping piece of career suicide makes the rounds of the Cigarette Smoking Man-like cabals that actually run the movie biz) eight years of my film-making career. It's always been a point of pride with me. Moving to California once they got their foot in the door of the movie biz was something lesser men (and women) with flexible integrity did, not me. Making my home in Los Angeles would be akin to selling out.
But let's not pull punches here: I sold out a long time ago. My career's been bought and paid for five times over, because I've accepted (and often begged for) money from studios to finance my celluloid whimsies. For years now, the shorthand used to describe me by a press core that couldn't be bothered to figure out another label to slug before my name has been: "Indie Film-maker Kevin Smith." But in truth, I haven't been an indie since the first two weeks of '94. The moment Miramax bought Clerks at the Sundance Film Festival, the "Indie" title became negligible, as they, in turn, are owned by Walt Disney (the monolithic corporation, not the cryogenicly frozen Mouse-maker himself). When Universal put up the six million bucks for me to make Mallrats, my sell-out hymen was busted beyond repair and I was no longer "cherry." Chasing Amy, Dogma, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back - all of these were financed by Miramax coin, which in turn was probably earned off your backs, gentle readers, if you've ever taken a trip to DisneyWorld and paid five bucks for an ice cream bar shaped like Mickey's face.
No, the only reason the press (and, by extension, the folks who read and beleive the press that press presses) still maintain I'm an "Indie Film-maker" is because they find the shit we've shot hard to categorise (as supposed to the shit the actor guy is rumoured to like getting a peep at shooting out of the asses of chicks who I can only assume have a total lack of self-consciusness). "Cult Film-maker" would probably be a more apt label. "Lucky Sumbitch Who Keeps Falling Upwards Film-maker" would be even better. But no matter how many times I'll tell folks, "The only truly independent film I've ever made is Clerks," I've long since accepted the fact that if I'm 75 and I've just directed Clerks Part VIII: A Flat-Out Commercial for Coca-Cola, Nike And McDonald's For DisneyCo, starring a cast of whichever hot, young actors are on the nation's number one TV show at the time, the press will still call me, "Indie Film-maker Kevin Smith."
So, old sell-out that I am, I couldn't really argue against moving to Los Angeles anymore. And honestly, I didn't want to after spending a year out here making Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back. You spend a year anywhere (well, maybe not prison or Calcutta) with your family and it becomes home, really. Because the old adage is true: home is where you heart's at. And my heart's at the feet of my wife and kid.
Jen never liked New Jersey. Raised in Florida and a Los Angeles resident for seven years before we met, the notion of a state that has actual shifting weather patterns never appealed to her. She has a 70degree mentality. That's how I'm cock-sure my wife loves me - not because she gave up her writing gig at USA Today and moved to New Jersey to be with me after we fell in love, but solely because she moved to New Jersey at all, not to mention stayed there for four years. Lest you think her a real martyr, let me assure you that during those four years she never missed an opportunity to remind me how much she hated living there. Jen would find one small way every day to let me know there was a better place to live than where we were. That was her retribution for being made to suffer through freezing, blizzard-condition winters and humid, mosquito-plagued summers. And every time she lamented about how much better off we'd be in Los Angeles, I'd lash out ather, "Hey, man - don't try to change me! I'm an Indie Film-maker!"
Yeah - even I buy into the label sometimes.
But it wasn't the power of my wife (who, honestly, has me so wrapped around her finger that she could probably - in very few words - convince me to watch her fuck three of my worst enemies in our bed while I stood naked in a corner of the bedroom, reading aloud from the most damning and dismissive reviews any of the flicks I've made have ever received, while The Brothers McMullen played on the TV in the background) and her never-ending, none-too-subtle suggestions to pack up and head west that finally made me pull up the Garden State stakes.
It was the kid.
When you've got a kid, you want them to enjoy their childhood - mainly so that they don't blow all your cash on therapists down the line, bitching about how miserable you made them in their youth. I figure my kid's already got a few years of couch trips ahead of her, coming to grips with the fact that she's the daughter of "Silent Bob" - a point that's kind of embarrassing already, and will only grow moreso the further we move away from those movies, and the audience starts to wonder "What the fuck were we laughing at anyway?" Why compound that by adding injury to insult in ruining her childhood? And the easiest way to ruin any kid's childhood? You show them what life is like when they can go outside and swim in the pool and run around the in the yard every day of the year because the weather's always a mild 72degrees, then yank that shit out from under them by dragging thair confused asses back to a place where the pool's got a cover bolted over it nine months out of the year, and they can't even get outside to grab a lung-full of fresh air because the snow's piled so high against the door that you're looking at your flesh and blood, wondering what part of their body you're going to have to eat first to stay alive, once the rations run out.
After being in Los Angeles for a year, my daughter Harley became a real outdoorsy kid. Me, I was never one of those - which is probably why I always look like I have already eaten several family members to stay alive, snow or no snow. And being that Harley has what appears to be my very dominant genes coursing through her tiny frame, her life's going to be an uphill battle to not look like me as she gets older. And I'm not even talking about the beard here; this kid's got a pair of legs and an ass on her that my wife's always saying looks "... real familiar." If the Lord answers my prayers, Harley will chrysalis during puberty into a tall, shapely woman who more resembles her mother; but for the moment, she looks like a miniature, non-smoking version of her dad. And if she were to live a life that kept her house-bound in front of the TV for three quarters of the year, we might as well get her a sleeveless hooded sweatshirt and a prescription for Xenical now; because with my cursed DNA torpedoing her at this early stage of the game, the forecast for her future aesthetic is looking pretty grim. Having grown up a fat kid, I don't wish that on anybody, let alone someone I love so much. As unfair as it is, this is a thin man's (and thinner woman's) world; as such, I want Harley to have the best chance she can get to triumph in that same war against the scale I've waged for most of my life.
And who wound up being her hero in what will become that never-ending battle? The same guy who's saved the world three times over now.
Once from an asteroid the size of Texas.
Once from a sewer monster.
And once again, this summer, in The Sum Of All Fears.
She calls him Uncle Ben.
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