First off, if you're new here, you're probably wondering to yourself, "Who the fuck is this jerkoff and why did he add me as his friend?" The answer's simple. I won't lie. You either, A, share musical or cinematic tastes with me, B, like the same books as me, C, are a regular commenter on a blog that I think shares my humor (in which case, you'd find me funny, too), or, D, are hot and/or are Natalie Portman or someone who might be Natalie Portman or someone who might look enough like Natalie Portman that I'd be okay falling for you in that creepy Kim Novak/VERTIGO way.
Confirm me as a friend. Better yet, subscribe to my badass blog where you can read daily an entertainment journalist's thoughts about the excesses of celebrity wealth, the absurdity that is Hollyweird, and the declining standards of the music industry. You'll probably laugh. You might even piss yourself. Don't blame me if you do.
Decline me as a friend and I'll find out. I probably won't do anything about it, but, if I'm in a foul mood, I might just hire a crack squad of cracked-out ninjas to take you out with their ancient ninja arts while you sleep. You will never see it coming. If it's a bad week and I can't afford a crack squad of cracked-out ninjas, but I'm still determined to exact vengeance for your dismissal of my offer of friendship, I might FedEx you a badger that I've not fed in several days -- just so it's especially feral when you open the box. This is what you MIGHT get for not being friends with me. Sorry. I'm sensitive.
That said, COLE HADDON -- that's me (I like to speak in third-person sometimes) -- is an entertainment journalist who writes on music and film for a rotating cast of alternative newsweeklies that now total more than two dozen, including numerous titles within the Village Voice Media and Times-Shamrock chains. He does not think he is especially good at this vocation, but, lucky for him, no one has figured this out yet. He is always convinced that day is imminent, though, and soon, unemployed and broke, he will find himself living under a freeway overpass, wearing seven layers of sweat suits, and playing with pigeons he’s individually named.
Cole currently lives in Echo Park, which can be found in Los Angeles, which can be found in California. His apartment – which he shares with a fashion photographer named Tim – is located between Dodger Stadium and Downtown LA. His only neighbors seem to be Asians who, every morning, like to exercise without smiling. They never smile. Cole thinks this is his fault because, A, he does not exercise and, B, is not Asian, thus making him the ultimate outsider and no one ever smiles at outsiders. Unless you’re Matt Dillon. Then people smile at you despite your refusal to fit into society.
Cole spends his week interviewing celebrities, semi-celebrities, and wannabe-celebrities while struggling to churn out gripping journalistic narratives and music and movie reviews and convincing his editors to keep giving him work despite the fact that, remember, he’s not especially good at any of this. He also spends time developing several screenplay projects that he hopes will buy him houses in the Hollywood Hills, Brooklyn, Sydney, and London in the near future. Sometimes, he dates, too. Women are his weakness. They trouble him like his universal remote’s programming instructions.
For those who are interested, this is where you can read Cole’s work: East Bay Express, Baltimore City Paper, San Antonio Current, Phoenix New Times, Orlando Weekly, Denver’s Westword, Kansas City’s The Pitch, Cleveland Scene, and Cincinnati CityBeat.
