Just when you think the universe can't get any weirder, something else happens to show you that as the timespace continuum spirals ever downward, every day is "Anything Can Happen Day".
No, I'm not referring to Barack Obama's baffling selection of Joe Biden as a running mate, although that's certainly up there. But terrestrial politics have long since ceased to matter much to me.
What does matter to me is that David Duchovny, one of my favorite actors of all time, has announced through his attorney that he has voluntarily turned himself in to a rehab clinic to seek professional psychiatric help as a sex addict.
Oh, what the fuck? (No pun intended.)
Now, we've always known that Duchovny goes hand in hand with libidinousness, like chocolate goes with peanut butter. After all, he rose to prominence on the softcore erotica show Red Shoe Diaries, and playing a transvestite on Twin Peaks. Even an early bit part in the film Ruby as Officer Tippit had him horndogging over Jack Ruby's new stripper. And it become an in-joke on The X-Files that Agent Mulder was a great aficionado and collector of pornography. Of course, his current starring role as Hank Moody on Californication is that of a sex-obsessed sleazy writer.
Speaking as someone whose own libido is bigger than a breadbox, I've always felt the whole "sex addiction" myth was just another phony mental malady dreamed up by psychiatrists so they can "treat" it. I mean, as Gene Simmons is fond of noting, being obsessed with sex is what men are supposed to do. It's our biological niche. It's what we do. I just don't see how it becomes a problem. Then again, I have a far better sense of self-control than most men (well, sometimes) and I also lack David Duchovny's bottomless bank account from which he probably orders in hookers nightly like I order Arni's Pizza.
I'm betting that his little woman, Tea Leoni, is the one who put her Jimmy Choo-clad foot down and demanded he seek help for his unquenchable urge to merge. Whatever. David, just go in there to those counselors and weep a little and nod sheepishly and tell them you're sorry and promise you'll only think about dryer lint and pencil sharpeners from now on, and say whatever you have to say just to get out of there, out of the clutches of those quacks.
And then go back to indiscriminately fornicating like a crazed weasel. You have our blessing.
- - JSH