We were going to write an open letter to James Franco after reading his short story in Esquire last week, but the inimitable Sady Doyle did it for us. You want to know what reading really, really bad "literary fiction" is like? It's like this: "Now me and Jack-O' are driving down the dark 280 freeway. Me and fat boy cruising. And I think about that missing tooth, and that gap, and how there was never a gap in that place before, and about three dimensions, and how the gap was on the inside of his mouth unless he opened his mouth and how things, shapes, folded in on themselves, and four dimensions, and if time is variable, then how do I vary it, and why do I want to? Because everything just focuses in on me and I hate it." Yeah, we hate that, too. Thanks to our beloved Chérie l'Ecrivain for directing our attention to Mr. Franco's literary activities.