Next stop...creepyville.
In an interview with Vanity Fair, the actor says he didn’t recognize the “beautiful blond woman” – who happened to be his daughter Tatum O’Neal – who embraced him at Fawcett’s funeral.
“I had just put the casket in the hearse and I was watching it drive away when a beautiful blond woman comes up and embraces me … I said to her, ‘You have a drink on you? You have a car?’ She said ‘Daddy, it’s me – Tatum!’ I was just trying to be funny with a strange Swedish woman, and it’s my daughter. It’s so sick.”
I swear that Hollyweird couldn't be more effed up if they tried. They work about 6 months a year, they make millions of dollars to stand around on blue X's taped on the ground and recite lines, everyone caters to their every need, they are insufferable A-Holes, and almost every single one of them use their fame, fortune and copious free time to further their addictions and/or their selfishness. Going to the "love of your life's" funeral and hitting on your daughter is beyond any humor I can muster. I seriously don't even know where to go from here. I bet if I weren't so incredibly awesome, my brief but dominant exposure to Hollywood would've surely turned me into a minotaur or a serpant of death. I guess though, since I have total zen-like control over my psyche due to countless hours of acupuncture, Bahá'í Faith meditation, marathon Jenga games with topless Scandinavians, and quinching my soul's desire for redemption by feeding famished lepers in 3rd world countires, it's difficult for me to understand the irresistible temptation and therefore, hardened, and troubled life of Hollywood actors.
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