WHAT I HAVE AGAINST JAMES ELLROY, POINT ONE, SUBSECTION A: I can't finish any of his books. Now, I'm sure he's a good writer (at least that's what everybody says), but if you ask me? A crackhead ape could do better.
WHAT I HAVE AGAINST JAMES ELLROY, POINT ONE, SUBSECTION B: Just because one can write good books (and James Ellroy CAN'T -- see point one, subsection A), it doesn't mean one can write good television. Take that hack, F. Scott Fitzgerald, for example. All his episodes of M*A*S*H sucked!!
WHAT I HAVE AGAINST JAMES ELLROY, POINT ONE, SUBSECTION C: He sniffs panties. Now, before our highly paid staff of libel lawyers gets their panties in a bunch, James Ellroy has not only publicly admitted he sniffs panties, but if you knocked on his door right now, I bet you'd catch him with a pair of Lady Hanes hanging out of each nostril!
What's up with sniffing panties anyway? I mean, I understand that some people are turned on by the pheromones of others (like my FAWKING EX-WIFE!! Ohhh... don't ask), but there are a lot of scents running around a pair of underpants that HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH PHEROMONES -- if you get my drift.
What? Whaddaya mean you don't get my drift? Why doesn't anyone get my drift anymore?? OKAY! In a pair of underpants, you got your four basic smells: You got your pheromone smells, you got your PEE smells, you got your BUTT smells, and you got your SCHMUTZ smells, like gummy girly goo and sticky boy spoo. OKAY??? Do you get my drift NOW?!?
Anyway, here's my point: If you're a dog, snorting dirty laundry is something I can understand. My dog, Marmaduke Goldstein -- an aficionado of offbeat human smells -- is all too happy to ram his nose into your crack with the speed of a torpedo sinking the Bismarck. But I ain't no dog, and as for me, there are just too many stinks inside a pair of briefs to make it worth my while!
Now, if James Ellroy is indeed writing a television show that has something to do with actual police work, then despite my concerns, I will watch it. But if he's planning on penning some script about a bunch of crotch-sniffing, panty-huffing cops that should be called, (oh, I don't know...) L.A. Panty Raid!, then count me out! (By the way, my underpants smell like lemon-fresh Pledge -- just so you know.)
Send your clean e-mail panties to steve@thestranger.com.